I have been drained out, mercilessly,
of all my intellectual literature.
Even though you say my words
grasp your soul, stirring them into
a haunting bliss, the words torment
me. They linger off every thread of
clothing that veils my bitter, ghastly
body, stalking after me in my angelic
night terrors. I cannot cease to elaborate
the turmoil that pours down on me like
a torrent of December rain, piercing and
impassive with every hand stroke and
movement made as my narrow pencil
drags along the callous blue lines,
writing eloquent yet disturbing lyrical
sentences arranged for you.