It's not physical my minds mayhem. It's so subtle.   Lines and colors. Textures. Nothing beats this fear.   Poetry becomes one line on lies and smiles.      I don't want to be in that place. A finished work of art. Smooth, Polished in a cold stand. I'd rather be a paper cut.      I've written away from lines to be free in a black screen.   Sheared. Alive. I Breathe. Bleed. Bled. Woke.   Nothing to say. Your cheeks turning white. New hope.   You're dressed in white on an operating table.   I drove you to the hospital.