Blood runs down my blistered fingers
and my hands are cramped and shaking.
My pen runs dry but still I write
yet my resolve is slowly breaking.
If I give up, just die alone
and drown in my thoughts tonight
would anybody care enough to notice,
would they wish I'd put up a fight?
I was told to write out my emotions,
that they'd dissipate like lost love,
but instead there's been a monsoon
that I never will be free of.
Instead of sticking to the page,
the ink is raining down
filling even the vastest oceans
in which I'm going to drown.
So if I am gone before the morn
just know it wasn't you.
It's the ink that got the best of me,
and so I say adieu.