Pain flowing from my fountain pen
I dip my quill into tints of misery
Etching the fragments of my despair.
onto parchment made of brittle regret
My trembling hand dotting i's and crossing t's
The sound of my grief solidifying before my eyes
a composition that only I can comprehend
sorrow bursting out of my fingertips
pummeling this thin wooden pulp
Fingertips stained with a dye of insanity
I write as a form of therapy
against those demons that reside within
Thins Around Edges clocking maybe not too decisivetrying to slice through the panic drivengestalt alternate predilectionn'the vision panels pictured sonic
If you want to see some other cool work go to www.humunculero.com I look at you, I want to cry, I want to fold up and dry up and blow away in the wind. I can't
Tick, tick, tick, can you hear the hear the time as it quickly slips by The hands of the clock read one minute before midnight, we are getting very close to