We pour our hearts out in ink barely words. Snuff out the kinks in every verb.

We shine the brightest when we use our pens.

Even when we are hurting we will never use a sword.

At least not until the pen is laid to rest... The words jotted down and we are slightly less depressed.

In our writers chair, bed, or stool.

Gazing at the sword, this ugly tool.

We decide to pick the pen back up to bleed out our hearts and throw away such measly things because writers love their tools — this is the best art.

My mind is whole;

Held together by the thoughts and emotions so bold.

My mind is cracked;

Ripples of space-time turn those cracks black!

My mind is shattered;

Destroyed — thrown apart.

Decaying. . . my heart.

Slowly stopping as it turns to dust.

My heart is blown away by all the negativity just as my soul begins to rust.

The deplorable destitute boy lugged his tarnished soles transversely to the bay. Where he sought to free the soul chained by adverse inclination. The chimerical platonic self-love was not strong enough to affix the soles nor the boy.

Thus

He dives in... sinking to the dystopia he unwillingly desired.

The things that the eyes perceive.

Tend to attract me.

Like the silk skin my hands dance across which always distract me.

The things that the hands possess.

Filled with desire and unrest.

Never sufficing.

Always enticing.

I am a slave to the flesh.