don’t quote me on this, but poetry thrives
in the place my mood stabilizer aims
what a twisted thought, finding art in pain
spread my hide, dehydrate it, display it 

wish I could bottle the place pain derives 
feeling light and blank is normal and fine
pain goes from the thing you feel to you see
kept in a little frame, manageable 

is making a spectacle of myself
the only way I can sculpt? or could I
glance outside, see more than just pain growing?
set my pencil down, and if I’m able 

arrange plates, spoons, and napkins, set the knives
let my hope have dinner at the table