Tired,

to even when the pen scratches paper,

an uneven blank etched scrawl,

It mirrors the state of mind,

a crease present now and for all the pages to come,

Over lines and crossing through spaces,

when the cover's shut, no one sees,

the damaged goods,

A hiccup of ink in the wrong place,

disrupted by the desperate scratching,

of the dry and reprieved counterpart,

Itching at the skin, waiting to draw its own blood,

to spill open upon the page,

Filled with scars of annoyed anguish,

from the sound of ripping leaflets and torn up spirals,

The ambidextrous man rolls in the chirals,

of madness and insanity,

Both hands rubbing furiously,

in horizontal pendulum sways,

And his eyes open bloodshot to red retinas,

He tosses himself upon the floor,

to agape his beak and let out the demoned moans and howls of ravenous terror,

His entire notebook's ruined,

because he held his pens too sideways