now that I have a pen the ink is spilling because I'm not a ten.

it's greedy for the pen to write out those words because it's the only description to have verbs.

I'll watch it write those words like my eyes are blind because it knows what I'm having trouble to find.

I'll watch it write those words that aren't original because soon enough someone will write again like an
arse-nal.

I'll watch it write those words to prove that I am selfish and to prove that I'm truly worthless.

when it writes those words others will flock like a bunch of birds...

they read these to act like the know and on their own they decide they should show...

but what they show is the work made by a pen that wasn't theirs and they will claim it so they feel like their paper's not teared...

how greedy of that pen to want all those words for itself and try to put something positive on that shelf.

because no one will see that sun leaking in the rooms so the pen continues to write things that involve my glooms.

a pen that writes on this paper is not a pen that's going to be proud sometime later.

the ink, you see, is made of what comes from my hands and what comes from my hands is just a typical plan.

it's the pain seething blood flowing in the pen from my fingertips and no one will notice the way it drips.

and so the pens out of my control after trying so hard

here's what I say and I'll sing it like a bard.

let the blood flow down to the pen because it truly shows the strength within.

and as I cry into the pitch black darkness I find something that seems so heartless.

a pen writing on a paper with light attached as the lead, I see down that dark tunnel... a plead.