I work pencil over paper
trying to find words
that will ease my pain.
If I get them down,
and in the right order
I will be released.
The pain flows down my left arm
and out my hand,
a hand my father was ashamed of
for not being the right one.
I attempt to transfer pain to paper
but the words come out jumbled
and my heart is tired from trying.
I am not thrilled with the title but I couldn’t come up with anything else that fit.