I'm bleeding ink
onto this notebook of torn pages
and shattered dreams
and every word that fills my head
is etched onto this piece of paper
in rich black ink.



I'm spitting words
upon this dog-eared page of pain,
watching lines disappear beneath my pen
as I etch my heart onto the paper
and leave myself wandering in yesteryear.



Wondering why things are turning out
the way they are
and wondering what things would be like
if I did something different
and I'm finding it hard
to find enough ink to express my feelings
all at once.



I've been sitting here
listening to the same song all day
sometimes humming the tune of the song
or singing the words
but mostly wiping my eyes
and the chorus just seems
to cut into my heart
make the scars deeper
little scratches on the surface
big deep wounds on the inside.



I'm bleeding ink
onto a torn piece of paper
while you sit there
sculpting lies into a block of marble
and calling it art,
if it were art
you would be a rich man
a rich man with no feelings to hide
you could just sit there all day
turning blank blocks of marble
blank pages
into works of lies.




My wings that once used to take me away
into total concentration
are covered in black ink
and broken now they are
and broken they shall remain.



I'm sitting here hoping
this song
will give me some inspiration
to finish this poem
while what ink
that I havent bled out onto
this torn up lone piece of paper
is enough to release what emotions
stand out more then others.



I'm sitting here watching you
sculpt your lies
into a block of marble calling it art,
when it is nothing more
then a bunch of squiggly lines
chizzled into a plain block of marble,
while I sit here
etching my black ink
into a torn pice of paper.

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