The pen and paper are my opening up.
I feel the gently rough grain beneath the nib
And something is unsealed.
Pins glide neatly into place
And locks pop blissfully open.
The pen digs in deep and turns out
The rich insides of me,
Giving them much-needed breath.
Streams of light seep out
Through the wrinkles in my brain
Through the fissures in my skull
And are captured underneath black ink markings scrawled without pause
Carried forth to the world in the only vehicle which suits them.
I write and I open.
The pen’s frantic movement
In a hand free of restraint, free of judgment, free of calculation
Jars scales and dust out of place.
Making me as if I were all eyes
And every eye a mouth
And every mouth an ear
And all of it tender, uncalloused feeling flesh.
Shaking wildly to the ends of everything
All exclaimed, proclaimed by pen
All of me bursting out and out
All of me folding in and in.
Alas, I can only open so far before I become