Piss ink penned with broken fingers

The only pens my fingers manage to grasp are those brimming with piss ink

Staining parchment translucent so that I may only waft the fragrance of muses with broken fingers

If I could share my southern accent to voice the verses of obscured handwriting I would still doubt a palpable understanding

Because the hands of yesterday only accomplish inevitable nicotine stanzas and broad incoherency

Yet the pages find far more meaning in aureole embers then my empty words ever could (can)

Maturity has calmed the morbid stylings of a young women releasing the devils of plagued poetry

But my tounge still yearns to spit for the ruin of something so revolting, it's beautiful

And because of this, the only pens my fingers manage to grasp are those brimming with piss ink

Staining parchment translucent so that I may only waft the fragrance of muses with broken fingers

It seems that slowly, with every poem, I become evermore dyslexic