It's not physical my minds mayhem. It's so subtle.
Lines and colors. Textures. Nothing beats this fear.
Poetry becomes one line on lies and smiles.

I don't want to be in that place.  A finished work of art.  Smooth, Polished in a cold stand.  I'd rather be a paper cut.

I've written away from lines to be free in a black screen.
Sheared.  Alive. I Breathe. Bleed. Bled. Woke.
Nothing to say. Your cheeks turned white. New hope.
You're dressed in white on an operating table.
I drove you to the hospital