The siphon, I believe,
is what it is called
from my very own fingertips,
it has evolved.

Once rough and unhewn, 
maybe made out of wood,
channels my thoughts,
takes others to where I once stood.

It took minutes upon days,
upon late nights and long hours,
carefully carving and whittling.
What once only made sandcastles, can now create towers.

My skill:
shaped and worn,
like a deer's antlers,
shed and reborn.

My pain I can channel,
comes out clear as a bell,
sharp as the ice frosted upon my still heart,
maybe you will feel that as well.

My siphon has no limits,
no thoughts and no feelings,
 but it's quiet in its work,
at my subconscious it's peeling.

'Away with the old,
and in with the new!' It declares,
but all I can do
Is sit blankly and stare.

For, how, pray tell,
does one write their real emotions,
without pictures or words,
a mere representation. Just motions.

So I sit, and I wait,
for inspiration to take me
spread its great wings,
and fly me out, away from the safety -
 
of this world,
of which we can't seem to escape
everything's 'safe'?
No, everything's fake.

So this siphon is indeed,
the only truth to be told
no one can even begin to question
the thoughts it unfolds.

This thing of my creation,
maybe it's too much to bear,
oh power, it struck me
gave me great robes to wear.

But I cast them aside!
Their gold I still mock,
I will always much rather prefer 
my siphon and smock.

How do they not 'get' me?
They put crowns on my head,
flowers at my feet,
silk linens in bed.

'Enough!' I declare,
it was not me who was free,
but the siphon, oh
that is freedom, so just let me be me.

I will not be your siphon,
that pain I can't take
anything that's not mine, 
comes through my heart like a stake.

'Too heavy..' I gasp,
sinking under your coffin
six feet down in the dirt,
already nearly forgotten.

No! I fight to the top,
I dig and I cut,
this siphon it helps,
oh my does it help cut.