7,20,2013

 Keep being told, if I ain't writing, then I'm lying. But it feels like it's lost. Gone and out of reach. The feel of this pen, is unfamiliar and not explainable. I'm scared it's just done for good. Yet I write to express and get through tough situations. I'm going through some bullshit now, yet this paper is half empty, and my hand shakes as I hold the pen. I've tried just starring, just squeezing the damned ink pen, 'til it's near in half. Feels like there is no cure, and I'm being told I have to breathe without it. Live without it.
My heart and soul. Just a hollow shell. I need my own selfish ink, these breathes are getting shallow each in-take. I miss you dear old friend, come, find the dying candle light in the endless abyss. I'll hold it, 'til the wax burns and sticks, as it runs down my arm. Blisters and open sores, but I can't feel it. Numb and waiting. I know you're coming back to me, take your time. I just need my single, last hope. I can see you flickering, but I'm waiting.