This poem is the third in a series of poems I wrote based on the work of Seamus Heaney, a poet I studied in IB English. (You can read the first and second poems as well). This poem is based on his poem “The Skunk”.
Pale tips, purpled, they clench
The pen: my life preserver.
Calluses: canyons and gorges of skin
Sliced open, aching
To pour their wounds onto paper,
Paint their hearts in verbs,
Find concise clarity.
Blank slates stained, pools of ink and blood
Like drunken tattoos.
Jagged nails sharpen words like swords
Longing to be scalpels,
Yet their strike will never be surgical.
Wayward fingers fidget- away from hands, away from thought.
Their destination- scrawled, sloppily.
Their product- runoff from
My polluted stream.
Words, ideas, stories:
So toxic as they
Weather my palms,
Infect my mind,
Stamp my skin.
My hands, beaten:
a monument to my bruised brain.
I will write on until the
Words clot my bleeding.