I lay my lighter on the title written Fire
I crawl inside a bedded box
relieve my body of attire
I tend to sleep on the right half
(the left half needs sweeping)
I need to quit seeing you lying there
I need to quit this all-night-drinking

Now who's thinking for me while I think about you ?
certainly not the same brain
that's been trained
to think things t h r o u g h

what do I do now
wanting to do you
do I
sit sit in this room  
& bang myself blue ?
do I do myself stupid
or ask again what to do ?

I am through with it
i'm through
I know just what to do
busting through lust's must
I get fronted by the view
*this front of you

I'm not afraid
of dying,
but of living,
yes, living,
it scares me.

Of losing someone,
of everything,
of living
in nothingness,
and in pain.

It scares me
to know,
that life isn't fair,
of people's judgment,
where is freedom?

You live in the world
of broken dreams,
of broken vows,
and of broken wings.

I'm not afraid
of dying,
but of living,
of losing someone
you love.

On the desk, there lies a fountain pen
It doesn't take cartridges
Rather, you dip it in ink and press it to paper
It makes a sound, not unlike fingernails on a chalkboard
But not like it either - it's satisfying instead of goosebump-inducing
Slowly scratching the page until it's gone
The ink has bled onto page 3
I've pressed too hard
But this paper is thick
Previous poets pondered profusely
Pretending this pen was a pipe
Holding it between their teeth until an idea came ripe
This pen holds a history of poetry
Of spilling thoughts that otherwise stayed internalized
And of sometimes spilling ink
It gets everywhere
I love it