Barely Ink Left In My Pen

Stuck down here in hell with barely ink left in my pen. All my blood has been drained, I cannot refill it again. I’ve done this countless times, As you can see my reality attached to the words in my rhymes. And when I pretend, they say read the signs. Only real MC’s and Poets allowed in these fabricated times. Stuck down here in hell with barely ink left in my pen And pages refusing to be filled with gems. How can my soul comprehend this When it’s goal is to extend bliss And despair, letting the world know it exists there. Through letters birthing words, Handing down sentences to stanzas that compete Therefore verses each other on white backgrounds with guidelines, Hoping to guide my mind to channel complete thought onto sheet, In these trying times, As I struggle trying to rhyme. Stuck down here in hell with barely ink left in my pen. Struggling to find a canvas On which to brand this emotion that bottle up like champers. I just put that word there ‘cause it rhymed But that’s the madness I find in these times when my mind Is inspired beyond comprehension. But yet can’t script a measly comprehension Or a decent 8 bar verse making me loose comprehension, On why I bought this pen, what was the intention? Stuck down here in hell with barely ink left in my pen. Barely thinking again since the plaster on the wall cracked Due to constant forehead contact. Damn! I have to get these thoughts out somehow. Might as well crack open my skull and see what’s on my mind, ‘Cause nothing seems to help to free these lines. My freedom of expression has been incarcerated On a charge of writer’s block, Judged by the fact that I didn’t write a lot. Neglecting the pen as if it wasn’t heaven sent. From ink blot to poetry spots, I’m hell bent on closing up shop. I’m stuck down here in hell with barely ink left in my pen And this hell is hot, burning my life’s purpose daily, I’m forgetting what is Zen. Loved one’s then comment that it will blow over or pray to Jehovah. However I’m like a drunken lost but I’m sober And my pride won’t let me cry on somebody else’s shoulder. With a blank expression I’d rather stare at a blank page, Gripping a pen that used to be my sage As we carved beauty into paper that oozes love and rage. It seems to be a distant memory from another age. Now I’m stuck down here in hell and the ink has run out. And the pen is worthless as it was in the beginning, ‘Cause it was never about the pen, Always about my ink flowing into something with meaning.