SELF-SORRY DISAPPEARING INK

My written words just disappear,
They’re made invisible; fully clear.
They don’t stimulate or accelerate
Enjoyment or pleasure,
Making Trash of my Treasure
Mined from so much twisted pain
I can’t justify or explain away
My experience; it doesn’t stick or stay
Very sharp or close-to-heart,
It only spurs and serves to start
The non-Consuming-but-Refusing
Of the Many, plenty rhymes I make.