The pen, his instrument of self destruction. He holds it between his feelings and his lies. Perhaps if you look closely you will see that his ink is running out.
What's left of his ink bleeds out onto the paper as if his own wrists were slit by the words that he writes...
The one that bleeds the longest is usually the one who smiles the widest.
Take a closer look at the poet to see the lines that he wrote upon his own face all those years ago...