This desk is my island,
This pen; my sailboat,
My mind is the captain,
Exploring the world,

But,
I can never get far enough,
To know myself,
There’s too many miles,

Words can’t cover them all,

I barely know who I am,
Or even what I want,
Or if what I do; will mean a thing.

Though at times,
I am alone,
Others; I am not

I am my own worst enemy,

And my own best friend,

I could sail forever on this pen,
To a sea; misshapen and insecure,
To try and be sure,
Of an answer which may not,
Even be there.

But of this; I swear,

Whatever ship carries me,
To wherever you may be,
Whatever treasures,
I have to bare,
However adorned,
With all my scars and tears:

It’s all for you,
I reveal my insides,
I sift through the oceans,
And clear the skies,
I sail for you; my dear,
Until my last pen dies.

It rolls past a snake in the night,
Steel wheels rattling along the rails,
Face bathed in flashing lights,
Looking down lit from above,
I see my own eyes reflect among them,
Travelling silent together through the dark,

Count the carriages then it's gone,
I'm left alone as it thunders on

I am the space man,
Who jumped from his spaceship,
To give himself some space,
Because he want quite in shape,
To return to an earth,

Who will not remember his name,
For he did nothing new,
No tremendous feats,
He gave only retreats

Welcomed into the deadzone of meaningless averted eyes,
Nothing but uncomfortable seats,
And an ease to breathe in all the toxins you want,

Tongue-tied for interests,
Nothing to share,
So we stare at our hands,
And I notice something in mine,

They're growing and,
The honesty of work is dying them grey,
And where once I thought of them wasting away,

I find pride in my replacability,
The hollowness of my labour,
I'm glad for these things because they highlight the pen,
Which ink stained my hands as I wrestled with it,
In an eternal battle I have with myself,

So i'm glad to be fleeting,
A relief to myself

**** the silent moon,
and all it's stark white beauty,
and the thundering ghost train's,
crescendoing symphonies,

I am ever so angry,
At the effortless night,
for try, try,
and try as I might,
I will never be quite as still as the moon,
all of my lines well end far too soon,
and all will be lost to the effortless night

Broken back bent we toil on our hearts,
pen silently swooping on the purest of sheets,
cigarette smoke blooms out in the dark,
as burnt fingertips drum up retreat,
the words flow in strings,
and get lost in the wind,
nicotine, dopamine drifting in streams,
i’m on an endless highway through the peaks of my brain,
the waves are breaking all over my dreams,
as my synapses rush; flushed down the drain,
a million overflowing ashtrays,
a crackling bowl of brainwaves,
staccato clicks of pen tops,
holding tight as the flow stops

as a writer i strive,

for new phrases and terms,

for cold hard linguistics,

and the pattern of words,

sometimes forgetting,

the truest I’ve heard,

the sweetness of laughter,

that squirms through your cells,

and the beat of your heart,

through your chest’s thin veils

Wrinkles spread,
On the mona lisa's face,
St. Pauls will crack,
And fade away,

Smoke will rise,
As towers fall,
And what we learn,
As we watch it all,

Is that even an angel's grace,
Is not safe in such a place.

There’s no time for heroes I scream out in the dark,

As narcotic times past are pushed through the dust,

Leaving no warmth in lieu or last shedding light,

We run scared of ourselves and eachother alike,

With nothing but the pity of stars and scars of delight,

Not fearing death but instead lying in wait,

As the sandpapers of time take all but our skin,

Spilling ourselves in grey silent rooms,

Grief over banality is a saccharine mess,

Not knowing best which sins to confess,

But when I’ve breathed out all my toxins my bones can rest,

Sacred satisfied,

Still