Spinning off its axis

The mind, it reels in perfect sphere,

ink blots against an unwound tape,

a tidy mess spilled forth upon the page...


absorbing to its hungry pores,

the pen it scrawled with pleasured hand,

the words that had been thought but left unsaid.


This severed vein that bled so well,

from pumping heart that could not slow,

had built a monument of crimson hurt...


which sent an ache that felt so good, 

he knew it must be had again:

the mind once more unspools into the ink.


This poem is about: 


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