Under My Sofa

Pen

I've got this brain I use to think
I've got a pen that's filled with ink
And my cloud of words orbit
Rain perpetually on the brink
So I have the capacity to write
And talk my way out of any fight
I have my targets with my sight
And although I don't always use it to preach
I have my right to freedom of speech
But somehow it's just not enough
I write and write til my fingers pour blood
Dip my pen into the browning ink
And write and write to try and think
I write myself lighter so I don't sink
And it's never enough
But why?
Why can't writing change me inside?
"You're just too broken," my pen supplied
"Trying too hard to hide"
But I reckon it lied
Wrote what I wanted to hear
Achingly close, oh so near
To being the truth but the bloody ink smears
It hasn't dried but it's been there for years
Tracing out forgotten fears
Kept red and wet from dripping tears
That splatter on the paper thin
Fragile fragments, ripping sin
Writing writing, through the din
Of thoughts so loud that I begin
To write them in
Between crumbling lines
Paving stone cracks
That I set foot on to break my mother's back
Or raise a lion to attack
Those that I can't when my bravery lacks
My words will be there, fighting hard
Spearing my foes with shattered shards
Syllables shrieking that they guard
A lonely girl
Who can't fight for herself

But lets her pen fight for her

***

I give up.

HAVE ANOTHER FREAKING POEM ABOUT POEMS, HERE, TAKE IT!

I cannot write anything else, so expect more poetry-ception.

Poem about poetry, go.

Alex xxx