This Pen.

I hit this pen onto this pad,
It begins to spill it's ink,
To find again some inspiration,
But hate is all I think.

And I know this won't be my demise,
And from these ashes I shall rise,
But it seems in time it never dies,
No it just goes on and on.

I bang my head through it's empty walls,
Yet I'm standing on the brink,
I fight through my exaggeration,
And through timeless time I sink,

And I hold this head, this head of mine,
This head of mine so high,
Then I shread these pages, pages torn,
These pages torn of mine.

And this is what I'm left with,
This—What spills from my pen,
This is that of which I write—
Brings chills to me again:

Out with the passion,
Out with the miracle,
Out with the passionate lyrical miracle,

Gone with the hatred,
Gone with the synical,
Gone with the hateful pinnacle of synical,

In with the pride,
In with the glory,
Out comes the prideful story of glory,

In this time.
In this place.
End this timeless place, and face—

The facts—
The facts that I must face,
These facts that bring me to my knees,
Yet I stand to win this race.

And then it really hits me,
Then I really see,
My self perception is self deception,
And now i see— I'm free.
—Dennis Mayer