The Reason, Complete

i

sewing old, tattered dreams
with thorns from the sink

as my flowing eyes, it seems,
are stemmed by the ink,

i write the lines
the solace they bring

will be brief and fleeting
but solace nonetheless, i think

the writing equivalent
of crying myself to sleep...



ii

"dig deep" as they would say
examine the flow of emotions

how did you get here?
we need proper investigations

so i become Sherlock,
pipe, hat and coat, all preparations

elementary, my dear Watson!
i say to my pen, after many negotiations

the pen being the only surgeon
to operate on my lunacy.



iii

cutting through the surface, it finds
all the things I had left behind

lost loves and loved ones
joys, sorrows, other states of mind

from epic novels to silly rhymes
so much in so little confined

the pen, at once surgeon and scalpel
wades through tissue,
and feelings of the hidden kind

it finds the tumor, deep and black
a deformed fetus waiting to be free



iv

the agony of the untold story
the cancerous fetus in the writer's mind

I take it out and lay it on white
it is shaped, slashed, spat on and signed

sewing it up, I rest a while.
the wounds will heal with time.

writing is exhausting.
it starts with tears and ends
with surgery of the mind

this exhausted solace is fleeting
then, like with Prometheus,
the pain starts again.