Outta whack,
Outta sync,
Wanna write,
Can't think.

Words dance,
Outta time,
Mismatched,
Bad rhyme.

Lines smash,
Commas fight,
Vowels heave,
Rhythm's *****.

Verses clatter,
Phrases crunch,
****** muse's
Gonta lunch.

Gotta write,
Gotta pen,
Words'll come,
Dunno when.

Day's boshed,
Outta sight,
Gonna bed,
Good night!

Alas, for I am master of my pen;
But Calliope is mistress of me.

We remember heartache for a spell
Not because of the significance of those who have cast us off
But because it's the brightest color red
On the first of many canvases
That is until
The permanence of togetherness
Bring together both pen and quell

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.