Struggle, as I might To list the words that reflect back Sickness, to my heart, For what I see upon the flowing pages That receive the endless words Is the guilt that replaces me, by a flood, By a hole, By a void That sticks to my fractured flesh, Sticks to my pleading voice, Attached upon my anguished self. Leave me to count the stars, For they cannot be very numerous As the tears I leave to fall, to grow my crops As winter does not take much of a toll As the coldness, within me. Leave me to signify wisdom As the evil, for my intimidation. Leave me as the crushed spirit I am For I am endless, in my pain. Does the ocean feel as much loneliness, as I? For what can I write, If not the mere sadness That strikes a needle to unbind the knots, That topples the wheel that was always flat, That steals the day to make it the night? Upon this typewriter of shame, I face what I feel, in my unending disdain.