Let a pen run dry from it's creative ink,
maybe take more time to create your words before you say them,
put a lot of thought into what you have to say &
try first to think.
That's honestly got to be my loudest silent prayer.

Only time I'm running out of luck is when I'm running out of reasons to ever live,
thousand reasons not to wake up to this beautiful  life we all live.
And a couple more to throw everything away, before I'm ever open to receive.

That's got to be a point at the end of the tip,
at a mountain peak bleeding out on those below me and pouring out knowledge onto these small kids with my ink.

I see black things much blacker in the dark,
and it's not a pretty site but still a reason why black is art and who we all are.

And my pen is a paintbrush to a poet painting out his every word,
Probably blinding out your eye, so take a better listen or haven't you heard.

I'm only here to spell out the info of True,
So don't misread me for spelling it out to you.
If you can't take the truth then it wasn't meant for you.

That's what the relationship between a pen and a poet had to sink into your head,
so he best wipe his fingers now, cause his fingers have bled.