Here I go again typing this empty note/
Writing every piece as the poem spoke/
Like I'm part Mozart of this now broken pen art/
On an empty keyboard that's missing its paper even more/
So no need to feel the words anymore or write poetry like before/
Before the "Nevermore" that became torn/
The poetic savior of written behavior, poetry made to favor/
It's like the write is no longer a song shaded for the heart when it's gone/
The black coming from the going white, this written scar of papers bite/
Together each mark they leave is what a letter is to every word we read/
The only part in a one, two of a kind piece of art/
Always made beautiful from a white start that's lasting long after all passion has torn black apart/
Sensations of a creative creation without limitations/
Open wide the boundaries you hold for the forever more stories to be told/
Like a sunrise to the moons cries, so are these painted words to rhymes/
As each letter is placed to ask why in lie by the pens side/
It's clear ink dye is shaded red in the lie's why/
Until the pens been bled dry, the why is left in lie/
Told by the stars that light the night sky to the many gazing eyes/
Its whispers told softly of the color we hide behind the tomorrow's we paint goodbye/
For the never year we hear only here/
Ever this, in my Never Ink Paper Year/