A Poet's Pain

Is it possible the pain in my fingertips Comes from too many hours typing my sorrows Some arthritic aliment That hinders only broken hearted poets Challenging them to proceed in their penning Suffering, while they sacrifice to set free the bottled up emotions That disease their daily head As if the volcano of a heart's hurt, erupts and flows viciously through constricted veins The bleeding inside, empties staining the sonnets and stories No stitches No amount of aspirin or alcohol Painkillers or prescribed preaching Can numb the persistent pulsing affliction Of my no longer having your hand to hold I watch as my fingertips turn purple and cold... Can't feel a thing... And decide I have typed enough sadness today