Glass

I hate the words I rehearse.
I hate the flow of the ink.

The art formed is insincere.

Every trickle of tears,
Every curvature of a smile.

Expatriated by rancour.

I sit exposed under the sun,
I sit alone and defenceless.

Endless rusted condition.

Here on this land etched a symbol,
Here on this land my hated canvas.

I dismiss detestation.

I break my fingers again,
I break my mind.

Trying to be whole.

I hate the words I rehearse.
I hate the flow of the ink.

What I have become repulses me.