Is it possible
the pain in my fingertips
Comes from too many hours
typing my sorrows
Some arthritic aliment
That hinders only broken hearted poets
Challenging them to proceed
in their penning
Suffering, while they sacrifice
to set free the bottled up emotions
That disease their daily head
As if the volcano of a heart’s hurt,
erupts and flows viciously
through constricted veins
The bleeding inside,
empties
staining the sonnets and stories
No stitches
No amount of aspirin or alcohol
Painkillers or prescribed preaching
Can numb the persistent pulsing affliction
Of my no longer having your hand to hold
I watch as my fingertips turn purple
and cold…
Can’t feel a thing…
And decide I have typed enough sadness today
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