the candles burn to wicks, and still you write.
in search of peace, the pen won't stop to think
of time and place. like setting matters! the ink
will quell your thoughts, so pack the words in tight
from page to page. as dense as smoke, which winds
along your lips: an acrid taste, the safest
smell you know. debate which words are clearest,
and mark the paths you hope the reader finds.
the drive is blank without the hours you waste
in finding precision: meant to cause emotion,
each moment packed with angst. the final word
will come too fast; the bile rises, a taste
reviewed with raised eyebrows. restless, in motion
you lose your place, your pace, the silenced world.