she tries these wayward voices
on for size, pens up and down
the ivories to see the light
and seize the dawn. she
cries when the words won’t
come, when they flit and fray
and tease her from the
shadows. she’s gone
the way of dragon skin and
longing, calling herself sane.
calling herself torn. small
-ing her self. she’s
trained and rained and tamed
her own veins to spill with ink
and smoke. she’s flat broke,
but tilted toward sky.
..
Written for Poetic Asides.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
Lovely and torn.