Years ago, carving inverse bumps filled with literal ink, not with blood or tears. Seeping arcs into a narrative of strokes, weaving falsehoods into a mirage of idealism. The maniacal tantalisation of abandoned disillusionment, pondering Hemingway. Abstracting simplicity. Scrunching alleged confabulations as the doctor ordered, drowning sorrow in hate, convinced that any articulation must have meaningful limitations if a person's own thoughts require just consideration to meaningfully digest. Editing my poetry, who I am. Condensing articulation, concerned regarding verbosity. Losing all reason. Taking the word butterfly, weighing less than an ounce; flying away. Abandoning obscurity, conforming to perception. Squandering my vocation. Learning to talk like everyone else.