What Breed am I?

What sovereign eye
Has cursed me not to feel?
Unless I cut myself to bleed these words of grit and death?
Who cursed me not to love unless
I first write of distress?



It builds up like a 
Wax. Or an oily, greasy patch
That cannot be removed. Each
Written word squirms through. 
I feel the blockage burn away
With phrases long overdue; they 
Leave me gasping with relief
To finally be free to breathe. 


How large I see the world and feel each person’s footsteps fall
How delicate I breathe the dust that swallows up the halls
I cloak myself in refuge and the darkness of my eyes
And I never let them catch me; no, how I have learned to hide. 

I feel more colors than they can sense
I hurl my painted words at death
I catch myself falling alone

And curse the gypsy heart I stole. 


Who cares! Who minds!
Let the strange-men dream their dreams. 
Let them prowl along beside my eyes
And peer through windows and seams. 

More wanderers have saved my life
Than friends I call my best
More nurses clad in comfort than the doctors they address

I scream and scream until the rawness of my voice is heard
I filter out the darknesses and go numb to the world
My coiling-strength can only take so much tension at once
Eventually the screw will break and all my shouts will burst.