Whispers in the Mind (Poem)

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.

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