#4
Informed that the pen is mightier than the sword, you felt the uncontrollable urge to press it to your chest.
Left some blue-black scars, each a spot on your breast
A reminder of each of the piercings that we left in my wrist.
Somewhat a bracelet of dismay and ink that forever haunts my being.
These botch job tattoos signify our loneliness and insociability
In that we can’t leave the house so much as to escape from the sodden dark rooms, that we seclude ourselves to; each seperate – such as that we never truly live.
Instead we interact through countless blogsites, wearing down our laptop’s keys and refusing to rest or even sleep.
We judge the world even though we haven’t a clue because we never left to experience it.
Sometimes I pass your room and slip you notes, which just clutter – not one moved from the doorfront.
I wonder at night if I’m really alive, because I may aswell be dead; It’s all the same, I lay here still, cold and pale.
With only carbonated drinks and my paper and pen, because technology isn’t authentic enough for the delicate taste of the world of today.
And I fall asleep, rhymes flowing through my head – chosen to ignore for the emphasis of prose. Poetry is a notion long foregone. Speak strong, for strength in speech is as powerful as we can ever truly get.
