That which is honest

Is often trapped behind

Sickened pages of diary

Aged black by breathe and time.

They burn fingertips decisively

And strike discourse in soft hands.

These irrefutable insanities

Have little place in common lands

But uncommon is my mind

And stranger is my heart

But upon this so called sacrament

My wrists break and fall apart.

I weep into misshapen arms

For I have no palms to hide my face,

Cursing the wondrous power

That words may weave and lace.

That which is honest inside me

Has begun to cut and sear

If I wish to taste the truth,

I must find courage among the fear.