it's different writing
the words that appear
on the page, because each stroke
is painstaking, requires work that
often cramps and ceases to be fun
when the pain kicks in, when the carpal tunnel
begins to thrash and release the fountain pen
the ink spilling all over the parchment
staining it forever with the act of incompletion

the man takes the sheet
in arthritis-plagued hands, turns it
over, and over, and over
watching as the blot of ink grows and grows
seeping through, dripping, dripping,
falling, falling, creating more stains
the ink consumes, travels farther than thought
and the man, though he wishes,
cannot stop its path, it goes along
without human interaction
before, man must wield its power,
since the ink itself cannot write words,
but he can see it doing so now
propagating despite his indifference
spells out the words
"do not keep me trapped here"