These veins are filled with ink not blood, 
The product of my broken dreams, 
Each thought lost in the tortured flood, 
That flows through me in endless streams.

These bones are draped in words not skin, 
The scribbled flesh of paper life, 
Each page turned by another sin, 
In lines drawn from my scars and strife.

These eyes are filled with ink not tears, 
The count of distant memories, 
Each drop a moment through the years, 
Where darkness claimed my sympathies.

These lungs contain dark words not air, 
The essence of what I’ve become, 
Each breath reveals a soul laid bare, 
A fate to which I must succumb.

This heart is filled with ink not love, 
A faceless clock that ticks in me, 
Each beat a curse from high above, 
That keeps me from all I could be.