In my hand I hold a ****** pen repeatedly staked into my hole ridden heart. -As I write walls around my mind, I am locked so far away from the scolding stares of ignorant eyes. I mark the trail of my escape by Silently bleeding ink across the canvas, that is my written world.
In my shaking hand I hold a pen, A sword secretly unsheathed each night To resist the unrelenting demons that dance in the depths of my mind. Afraid to succumb to sleep for the fight to seize a soul so shattered that it longer swings, slashes and stabs at the black hands holding down the broken body desperate for demented thoughts to dissipate.
In my hands I no longer hold a pen, as out the throat that screams of a self fulfilling prophesy of pain protrudes a pen, and as only silence survives an empty shell stares back, haunted by what I've done longingly gazing at the light far above as I crawl out the black pit I willingly plunged into for the last time.
Sometimes writing is an escape, other times it takes you to the deepest part of your mind that you fear, and sometimes it's the strength needed to break free from the hold of the darkest parts of your life.