Same as writing

I wish to refrain, I wish I could stop borrowing 
somebody else's paper, somebody else's surface 
to slide upon and crash (irretrievably). 

There is no need to use what I don't own.
Why would I not caress and stroke my
own material just because it's not here,
and I know it's not there.

Now, I might just flank of the memory's 
noticeable roundabouts, those disheartening 
realms of unanswerable pain, the rapid 
trepidations of my swollen heartbeat, the very 
unmatchable confusion from which to bleed 
the alert consciousness that I ignored in the past.

And the beat goes on.

I will not serve my past superficial 
immersions in violent acts, nor the 
antagonistic views that I once held.

And

Wherever the word awaits quietly,
I shall surpass barriers and tread on 
obstacles to chase the writing, to seize 
the day when I finally hollered.

I will not give myself any reassuring promises
of the value of this inner feeling. I will just 
wrack up and scathe the words until they 
are sore, scraped from that fallow land 
no one could claim as theirs ...