the sound of being.

my heart beats the same steady
cadence - drip – drip – dripping
onto this blank piece of canvas,
the color of eggshells beneath my
feet. solid, white like me inside and
out, pale. i have concealed it well –
the quickstep clicking of a timebomb
tongue as it dances behind eager lips
and threatens to overflow lead shards
into mechanical minds. like my mind –
gone dull, the eraser would leave smudges
and tear holes in such fragile paper, twisting
words and letters into a new syntax, because
rumor simply has it that
lead is not made from
shades of white.