Pen in hand, flowing ever-eternal ,
Keen is the eye of the beholder
Every root of every tree,
Every petal of rotting flowers,
Endless pages of blubbering nonsense and gibberish
One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,
For I see the beauty in every stagnant rock
And the words drip out of me like blood from a cut-
It festers my soul and mind
Like every artist before me, I go mad
Pen in hand, I scribble every word,
Every thought,
All on burned paper,
I look in the mirror and myself no more,
But a version of me, with pieces of my writing
The poems engraved in my skin, drawing forth sweet crimson
The ink stains my hands, my arms, every inch of my body
And soon, I can not separate myself from my work
Shakespearian, my world becomes
Of tragedy and betrayal,
To swoon and to fall,
To be or not to be
Until the ink no longer flows,
The pen, lost to time
Has it all really run out?
Have I dried like a well?
Settled like ink?
Crumbled like once beautiful petals?
Streams run to rivers,
Run to beaches,
Run to oceans and seas
Where do I run to?
Blindly
Has this life left me like a peel to rot?
And yet my body stays
Like a shell too small
Can you not hear the desperation in my thoughts?
To know where I become,
To know who I become,
To be known that I was once, that feverishly mad artist.
Keen is the eye of the beholder
Every root of every tree,
Every petal of rotting flowers,
Endless pages of blubbering nonsense and gibberish
One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,
For I see the beauty in every stagnant rock
And the words drip out of me like blood from a cut-
It festers my soul and mind
Like every artist before me, I go mad
Pen in hand, I scribble every word,
Every thought,
All on burned paper,
I look in the mirror and myself no more,
But a version of me, with pieces of my writing
The poems engraved in my skin, drawing forth sweet crimson
The ink stains my hands, my arms, every inch of my body
And soon, I can not separate myself from my work
Shakespearian, my world becomes
Of tragedy and betrayal,
To swoon and to fall,
To be or not to be
Until the ink no longer flows,
The pen, lost to time
Has it all really run out?
Have I dried like a well?
Settled like ink?
Crumbled like once beautiful petals?
Streams run to rivers,
Run to beaches,
Run to oceans and seas
Where do I run to?
Blindly
Has this life left me like a peel to rot?
And yet my body stays
Like a shell too small
Can you not hear the desperation in my thoughts?
To know where I become,
To know who I become,
To be known that I was once, that feverishly mad artist.
