Promise 5: Quill

My words, mine affliction
Your judgement, my cure
But I refuse the treatment
It, alone is mine to endure
I am ill with a proclivity
Of Seeing using words
To observe around me
All that is quite absurd
Taste rhyme or reason
To hear with eager lips
With teeth and tongue,
And talkative fingertips
Quill again dipped
In blood, our hands
Viscous fluid smears
Inky pages with tears
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