With so little earned
I retreat
From the loveless labor of ink
From the faces I’ve mindlessly scrawled

Pulled back from disorder
From the hellfire that torments
And flares behind the eyes

Pulled away from doubt
From a migraine’s pulsating blast
The fading trails of ink
And the rusted out, trains of thought

With so little earned
I retreat
From these ink-blotted fields
Of idleness and death