Poetree

It’s poetree.
Butter doesn’t help it grow;
dung does.
Comfort won’t make it flow;
chaos will.

You might be surprised at
the number of times you’ll give
hand-jobs to pens in one day
as soon as your heart gets wounded,
as soon as it begins to stink.

Your hand will move across paper,
and back again,
till undiluted pain rushes into your fingers-
pain, like pus,
deposited into your bloodstream from your heart.

You’ll bleed ink and
carve your blood into words;
you’ll come, on paper,
so you can maintain your composure
and manage the hard time,
even if you can’t get closure,
even if the words don’t rhyme.

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