Effusion: A poem

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it’s when eyes sting

that pen takes to paper

that strength and solidity,

they taper


that I swallow a sound

and keep a stoic tongue

but blood, it brims upon

the bite

and tastes of tears and treachery,

not triumph


it’s when the others cry

that my frustrated prisoners

shake at their cages

that scream echoes against shelves

of structured silence,

a repository of ruminations

crumbles despite calculated containment


it’s when I break

that chaos resumes its course

that I strip upon a stage,

a show my weaknesses endorse

my pallid barren skin a canvas

— no, a clay piece

where carvings leave marks with

painful permanence


it’s when a cryptic mind

unveils its code

that forced composure proves a farce

that throats close

that I inhale

and fail


but my pen, it runs on

Molly Nolan is the assistant Weekender editor. Contact her at [email protected].