All these pens are almost dead
and I can’t tell which ones will make it to
the end of this poem.
I pick one
and write faster.
Waiting on a line that doesn’t finish
waiting for a dead end
THAT SENSE OF DANGER!!!
Because I know myself
I know that if this pen dies
I won’t finish this poem
I won’t retrace these steps
and re-run the right tool over thoughts
that broke for a hole in my mind
like prisoners in an escape attempt.
It looks though
like we all made it
poems, poets, and prisoners all.