Outlet

I want to rend my flesh in grief,

Make visible my pain.

My sorrow knows of no relief,

Can see no earthly gain

— —

Instead of putting blade to skin,

I'll let this ballpoint bleed,

In hopes that putting hand to pen

Will fill this aching need.

— —

My thoughts escape through inky lines,

My spirit to console.

The pressures of the day's confines

Are too much for my soul.

— —

When tears won't come, the words will rise,

Outlet for my sorrow;

Transforming all my weary sighs

To hope which I can borrow.