Past the point
where writing helps
the words sleep
cocooned in coma
Ending their chrysalis
hurts hard
my words not always
with beaks
my words not always
pecking their way
to birth
instead
mostly
they blow through the walls of me
all suicidal newborns
seeking limbo to get free
What are left
have escaped
and are too breathless to go further
I harvest for my own
I nurture into poem