Paper Flesh

My pen has wept so many sleepless nights in the past,
recording the lasting impressions on my heart,
tattooing vaulting emotions into papery flesh
and creating enduring monuments of flooding ink.
I could build an ark for the words that come rushing in
but I know that I’m just as likely to dam the rivers
and stem the tides that flow from my veins and through my pen.
Whether to drown in the abundance of emotional turmoil
or to wither away, frozen through detachment with myself,
I fear my choices have me chained to opposing forces.
When can I say this water that sustains me is not overwhelming?
When will it be that my tourniquet is no longer my prison?