Fragment XXVII Splinter Spitter

...some nights I uncap
my pen to think and honey
and vinegar flows - unsought,
unbidden - even
unwanted.

Other nights - words,
like splinters plucked
from a dried, horny,
old soul, must
be worried until spat out
one thought
at a time.

The rest of the nights?
A mind, which would best
be served in sleep, stares
unseeing at the pictured walls -
thoughts all a mad mix of chaos
and logic; silence
becomes the only self-
defense of a skull
overpopulated
with too many things
to say.

_{(April 28, 2011 @ 01:02)}