sometimes my pen feels heavy
and so i tremble
as i wield it to paper
what if the words i birth
are frail, stillborn things?
what if
they’re prematurely hatched birds
with clipped and slighted wings?

sometimes my pen feels heavy
like a judge’s gavel
each and every blank page is a courtroom
and i’ll sentence myself
with the weight of my sentences

sometimes my pen feels heavy
and i must use it as a battering ram
to let out the skeletons from my closet
for all to see
and walk with my head hung
at least they’re clapping for me
at the expense of my sanity

sometimes my pen feels heavy
and i must use it as a pedestal
like i’m the jester
at the palace courtyard
doing every trick in the book…

sometimes my pen feels heavy
like a dagger
that sinks deep into my heart
slowly each time
but the ink that flows through my veins
must bleed
and it flows onto paper
to form the very words and sentences
that i sometimes fear
will jump out at me
and choke me in my sleep
in the cold night

and if that happens
then let it be so
what a heavenly way
to go.

* * *

what do you do
when you’ve got a fragile heart?
how do you carry it?
Cupped in trembling hands,
a wounded bird tired from flight.
Wrapped in layers of hope,
a whisper against the night

how far do you pull your sleeves
past your arm
to protect your heart
from breaking?
Past bruised elbows,
but the world always finds a way.
No sleeve is long enough,
love’s a relentless display.

how many more pieces
will you let them take home
as a souvenir?
a token of love?
before you start to crumble
in front of the mirror
and turn to dust?