Fare well, address.

My pen has grown impotent.
I don't feel like I have written
anything of merit in the past
few years, just blanks
shot across drawing boards
of a braille artistry.

I will work myself harder
than any ethical disposition,
until the sweat is blended
with bloody tears
on a tasteless palette.

Give me a pen,
and I will lock my secrets in it,
without possible parole,
and etch a master plan into the bars.

I may not be back for a while.
Iamb going to attempt
to perfect
a flawed world
with words.

Reading over my notes,
I need a hole rest.
My standing may then emerge
from this depression.