Sell your soul
To the pen
So I did
Red knuckled
Over porcelain skin
Transparent enough to count each vein
Pumping blood to a fractured heart
To a brain, both mad and sane
The spindly appendages move over each letter
But every sentence slides slowly
Across the paper
Only to be erased moments later
The curse of the artist
Doing what they love
They’ll never be enough
For themselves