Sometimes I wish This pant dries slower Around this canvas That curses my name, Every drag of smoke That reaches into my subconscious Meets my hand To pen To ink To this blank idea, I guess this is all i got I curse the lords name Throwing the pen Against this yellow wallpaper,
Depression is only called To the ones who can see The writing on the walls, Left in blood red, Words that make me a victim Of labeling what it means To be a victim.
This pen sounds like my mother, White powder filled with innocent memories Stick to the keys She could always conduct The simplest symphonies The sting to her words Wrap the vacuum cord around my neck. Terrorist apart of the self doubt group called my insecurities Swing at me like a pinata, Crucified to my old drafts Of this blank canvas,
I scream enough I say, My words cast a light Through the pen Shattering this oddly warmer room I pick up the pen And write on this canvas