Scene 1: Clocked-In
Just stand it.
At the end of the day,
you’ll write.
Penning down your angers,
memorializing those moments.
Only a few more hours,
it’s not always like this all the time anyway.
When ink touches parchment,
you’ll get what you want.
You can watch the water past under the bridge.
There’s nothing you can really do,
sure it’s bad but you are pretty sensitive.
Yeah... you play a part in this.
Make sure to write that down,
only fiction has one-sided stories.
Ok. You’re alone.
Scene 2: Clocked-Out
Resilience is deceiving.
One keeps walking, regardless of their wounds.
Smiling in pain is like playing out of tune,
it feels wrong.
No matter how long one listens or how gracefully the strings are strummed.
I keep mum.
Wondering where this blood is coming from.
The dried up, reddish brown flakes,
caught in crimson, coming, creeping, out of... somewhere. Some part.
It’s gone unnoticed for quite some time it seems.
Pour on the peroxide, rub in the salt, and run it under cold water.
The stains will go away.
Just stop the bleeding first.
Scene 3: Disconnect
The what?
The blood. You’re bleeding.
Where?
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