My body rejects the writing 
because writing 
is like an I.V. in my veins. 
It clears the venom 
out of my body 
and dries up 
the river of words 
in my mind. 
I do not want to be 
a skeleton 
with pretty bones 
and no substantial thoughts. 
Writing polishes my soul 
but I lose the piece of me 
that made me fight. 
I have so much to say 
but I am slowly 
chipping away and 
all I can do 
is watch my brain decay. 
Every time I write 
my fingers crack under the pressure 
that maybe after this poem 
everything will be ok.