My Pen Will Tell the Tales
I'm under the weather of
raging ravenous ravens
feathers--vultures gliding
awaiting the corpses
of my bleeding thoughts,
and my wounded pen.
The carvings that furnished
the sanctuary my once empty
thoughts, and whatever
darken
words written on the tablets
of my heart won't be
forsaken
by my pen.
My pen will tell the tales of
the moon-less night that
buried
me under rubbles of falling
darkness
after the walls of the shy
shaken.
My pen will tell the tales of the
tears that streams down the
cannons my cheeks, to wash
away
the blood that's oozed from
my
Wrists, when I try to leak the
aches that's aching.
My pen will tell poignant tales
that will stain memories
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