The Pen Returns

Have you ever had
Have you ever thought
Have you ever felt
So many words that
They fumbled in your chest
And spilled down to your belly
Before they could even make it
Off your lips
Off your pen
You speak like you
Off your meds so it’s
Off with your head so you
Keep your shit in until you
Break like bread and
Drink the blood from your wounds so they
Learn to respect but your
Taste buds soon find that shit is
Hard to digest so you
Try to cry
But soon find that
You have no tears left
So you start yelling
And yelling
And yelling
From the pit of your belly
Your belly
Your belly
Is where the words fell
Is where the words landed
Is where the words crashed
How dare you ask me
If I’m okay
Or how I feel
Like you ain’t got two eyes
Or common sense
Or know my zeal
I am a junkyard manager
My confessions run off track
Off tongue
And fall backward
Down my ribs
To my tum
My stomach
Or my chest or my soul—
I don’t know—
Is a collection site for crash landings
Failed departures
Miscarried mumbles of expression
My core
Is a junkyard of trauma
And I
Am a junkyard manager
I swallow rejection like medicine
The junk manages to crash harder each time
But I manage it
'Cause that’s what ninjas do
Mask the body
Move in silence
Give em Hell like Satan Sensei taught you
Show ‘em death like your feelings want to
Like your flesh wants to
Like your focus won’t move
Like this pain lasts forever
Like He ain’t die too
Like nails ain’t pass through His hands just So
The Father could get to you
Like you don’t know to move wiser than fools
Like you think the King’s crown shakes when
You ain’t
In the best of moods
When you don’t
Have it your way
As if you don’t know the Way
As if you don’t know the Truth
Like you ain’t know the Life
Was bought at the highest price so you
Could get back up again
Like each time was the first time even when
The first time should’ve made death
Permanent.

I ask God to die
With spitefulness.

Is it because I know that
Even when I go down below
Still
I rise?
Or is it' ‘cause I know
The grave can’t hold
What comes back out of it
When the Son comes back for kin?

Or is it because words unspoken
Leave a heart unhealed
In purgatory until
A miracle occurs to unseal
Lips that have lost the will
To speak?

Maybe this is my miracle
Maybe I’ll get off my ass
Maybe I’ll sulk a little more
But even if I do.

Maybe
The next time I see
A white page
I’ll feel sorry
For the blank space
And pull out my pen.

Because maybe
It’s the only weapon I have left
And I been decided that death
Won’t find me helpless.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash