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