The pen in my hand becomes
an extension of my arm
and the blood my heart pumps
travels through my fingertips
to be filtered through my pen
and deposited as black ink
across an otherwise blank page.
Writing becomes dialysis;
cleaning my soul from impurities
from the thoughts that corrode
their way through my arteries and veins.
Every finished work cauterizes
my wounds just long enough
for another to open up.

BB

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