The breathe in my pen grew shallow.
Each scribble whittled me down.
Before I knew it, the pen that
I wrote with ran out of ink
Just before my heart ran out out of beats
This was a story not to be finished
But the ink stains on my hands
Were like the scars of my past.
A constant reminder.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 2:33 AM UTC
The breathe in my pen grew shallow.
Each scribble whittled me down.
Before I knew it, the pen that
I wrote with ran out of ink
Just before my heart ran out out of beats
This was a story not to be finished
But the ink stains on my hands
Were like the scars of my past.
A constant reminder.
