It's a trickling, difficult to channel,
The canals between brain tissues, teasing,
Nipping, flitting and
Paranoid like a hummingbird.
Either I am still and it sidles
Between my bones and runs
Down me and into the ground,
Or I grasp it
And break it, smallish bones crushed
Between poised fingers and a pen,
The blood trickling down,
Difficult to channel and flitting,
Becomes red poem upon my page.