The pen develops a mind of its own and
words are sown like seeds,

some will grow.

Before too long,
before I go wrong
before the lights go out
before I go crazy
being so flamin' lazy
I'll sleep.

And as I sleep
the pen quietly weeps its words
in ink.

what harm in the farmer that bleeds his land dry?
and why would he do that?
why cry over spilt milk?
why not cry for the cow?

the pen wanders in along the rim
where consonants fail
where only the mad would sail
where I tail off.