Why do the whispers in the mind
And scissor blades upon the skin
Inspire in me, so deep within
Words to feed my hungry soul.
And why does anger light the spark
Igniting fire within that dark
And destitute pit of trite.
No other time, does my hand move
And start to scrawl, with coarse approve
Verse perhaps with some slight worth.
I see within those strokes of pen
The grace of sound, and maybe then
My tortured, cheated, doomed pretence
Makes, to me, a little sense.