The Soap and the Leak

Words don’t lie, but silence cheats.  

Thoughts locked in skulls grow heavy.  

They rot there, in their own gloom.  

Writing drags them out, naked.  

Dish soap meets the rubber truth—  

bubbles rise, the defect smiles.  

Ideas burst wide, gaping voids.  

You can't fix air you can't see.  

In the mind, everything feels perfect.  

Perfect lies, perfect fears, perfect traps.  

Once you write, you meet the scar.  

The drip, drip of your busted wheel.  

There’s no veil on black ink's sheet,  

no fantasy holding a steady hand.  

Slather the page, let it speak.  

Its screaming silence saves you again.