i am a writer
a resting pen in a palm feels akin to nature
vagabond vultures on paper is true nurture
to a warm month of may, i really have nothing to say
to my nonverbal acquaintances, stars and silent bars,
droplets of black create a void so vast
warm yet far away, it tears me apart fast
silent sighs on a night light, torn apart rings and even worse things
the book calls me no matter how i look