Talking To Myself

I hide behind the inky walls of my pen's creations. Where, I don't know.

Blood spots, ink blots
The pen writes in the blood of the brain, thin like a red worker ant's wiry legs, which are crippled from the strain of the weight of the leaves of life on the ant's back.

But the ant works on, and so does my pen, as I sit and wait and write, leaving microscopic momentos for ants who will never hear them, nor understand the bloody pages.

And so I hide behind my walls of opaque words and thoughts
and the metaphysical barrier of the pen which saves me from the harsh viewing of the world, only to feel narcissism climbing into my blood and onto the pages and walls and

I

lose myself again.