I sand smooth
the rough
edges of my words,
over and
over again.

Running fingers
over them, only to
find flesh still snags.
I push harder
down upon them,
until blood
has coated ink.

Turning red
the ebony lines
of dissatisfaction.

Still…
they are not refined,
not smooth
to the minds
touch.

A finner grade
of sandpaper
is needed,

but…
will do nothing.