.

•      
be     
-hold    
    my  sole    
     prized instru-
       ment of choice•
         let it bear the wei-
           ght of my unspoken
           voice•in the dead of
             the silent night•i'll let
               loose my heart so it co-
                uld take flight•consoli-
                  dating all that i think•
                   and...converting them
                     into the blackest ink•
                       only then freely......it
                          would spill•down
                                   the stem and
                                         to the nib
                                            of my
                                               fea
                                                the
         ­                                        red
                                                  qui
       ­                                               ll
               ­                                         •

My favorite thing to do, is to pretend I'm a writer.
When reality I only write so I can sleep at night.
Sometimes I pretend my old friends still care about me.
When I already know they would rather get high than hang out.
I used to pretend that I didn't care about anyone, or anything.
But as it turns out I care about almost too many things.
I used to pretend to dream to have everyone know my name.
But I only dream of having a enough people know my name,
and that maybe something I write could help someone else get some sleep at night.

I can feel you still lingering on the tip of my tongue
your name spills from my mouth
like the pills slipping down my throat, so that I can forget you.
and you see dear
you are still here
in the depths of my mind and heart
yet I see you as a stranger, for we do not cross paths
but I remember you vividly
probably why you still linger on the
tip of my tongue
and your name spills from my mouth
like avalanches fall.