Poem-A-Day: Day 13

Sitting

I sit
blood purpling
on my fingertips
from working hard,
hardly working.
Slamming away at my mind,
punching,
berating,
debasing everything
by restating it in sentimental fashion
over worded,
and complicated.
It’s no wonder nobody ever understands
me.
The keys to my soul
laid out “qwerty,”
when it should read “dirty.”
A cesspool of life
that’s sharper than it appears,
cutting each examining hand,
rendering them bloody
and lost,
stumbling to figure
what just happened.
Nothing happened…
It’s no wonder
I sit.