This is a poem
A dance of the words
This English language;
Nothing absurd.
In this world
There is a story
I want to keep hidden
Forever in its glory
A story of time
To the future and past
Through grit and grime
Nothing can last.
Every little thing
Galaxies, stars, atoms
Will soon go away
Nothing I can fathom
Now
In my hand holds a pen
I find myself wondering when
I'll just have to tell the truth
To everyone, all the way through
When you don't even try
But your hand just flies
Across the page
Nothing stays
It just rhymes
Every single line
All the time
In my mind.

Every day
There is no way
That anything stays
The same.
Just one little change
Something so strange
A bird out of its cage
Can be blamed.
For,
As this ink flows
So does all I know
I can't let it show
To them.
If they found out
I'd cause a breakout
To those who would pout
But when?

Why is this making me think
That there's ink as blood
And blood as ink?
What kind? How come?
I don't understand
These words in my head and
It may just mean that
I̵̧͓͛'̴̡̓͜M̷̢̻̋ ̷̦̳́C̵͇̉͘Ơ̷͓̄M̸̫̒I̸͔̺̚N̶͖̜͐G̷̨̩͆͝ ̴͒ͅF̶̱̽̓Ō̷̬R̴͉̈́͐ ̶̩̅Y̷̱̳͝͝O̶̦͌̏U̵̱͗.̶̛̱̒

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