THE HAND THAT FEEDS

   I change my ink to change what I see,
an empty page is a dead canvas to me.
   So I force myself into the dark,
to take out the words in between all this
sorrow that I hold.

I bite the hand that feeds, for I don't wish
to eat, whats the point of eating if I'm not
allowed to breath?

   I manipulate my soul, no longer carved
from stone, but only flesh and blood with a
delicate frame of bones.
   I'm weaker than your wish, I keep my body
in a bony frailty just to I could hold on to the
wind.

But I'm still heavy enough to shake the heavens,
I'm strong enough to shut hells doors,
wanting only to find a simple space in between
that's not made of just dust and stone.

I bite the hand that feeds just for me to see,
if the hand that reaches out to me, still
bleeds.