Why I Write

A lack of thought dictates my eyes-

these eyes of despair.

So, I dissect the rusted window frame,

with my dry fingers,

looking for a way out, but I can't leave.

I look around for an escape and see a canvas-

my only paint brush is my pen. 

I write, cracking my wrists against the French easel,

but I keep writing until I'm freed.

Parched fingers, no longer.

Eyes of despair, no longer.



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