Something about that art
That flows from the end
Of your pen
Words that flow
Like electric ink
Through a water fountain
Of pain and misery
It's like ecstasy
That you can breathe
It's an air of mystery
You conceal
Within your walls of doom
That you've built
Around your heart
Covered it with scars
Battle wounds that reflect
The quarrel of lost loves
And admitted defeat
Your words truly speak
On paper with a voice
That's hard to define
It's up to you to decide
How you continue your life
Will just keep writing?
Or will you actually start fighting?