They always say your words paint pictures

When I pour the ink from my arm

Trickling and tickling between old scars

The words become a picture unto themselves

A picture book without illustration

For the words they are the characters

The blotted spaces where I paused to think

Scrolling sloppy lines where I rushed to get it on paper before I forgot

The misspellings and misused words that had been scribbled over in frustration

The characters illustrate a journey and a battle

Whole lines that had been marked out from fear of judgment

Smeared ink where my hand had rested from exhaustion and burning calluses

There is a story behind the poetry

That only I can see.