i have too much to say and too little time to say it

sometimes i am a bursting poet, 
hands at the seams of my sides
trying to hold in the words 
seeping from my skin 

and staining my form in black ink

i've run through three pens
fingernail beds dark 
and the patterns of my thumbs
obscured and clotted with bleeding blue 

there is too much poetry in my head
to keep merely muddying my palms 
dripping from the tips of my hands 
into my keyboard
and twisted, twined into printed letters on a screen 

i am too full, 
the world too much 

for me to keep to dipping poetry 
it is inside of me and it will not let go 

overwhelming and dully gleaming silver and black

do not leave me to the darkness, please;
i have too many words inside myself 
for them all to go silent. 

The End

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