Tuesday, May 24, 2011

pilot p-500

The pen has been drinking; he lives above a neon sign
There’s no other reservoir for the ink to stumble home to, he always finds his way home, even half blind
The ink finds its way to the sores, like make up falling into the pores
Shows why we’re staying up late, what sentences stay up waiting by the door
Without these cracks where would the river flow, but straight and narrow, no words to form
Just a line, with no break in sight, to put a gap in-between the paragraphs we find, as the ink runs dry, leaving all inside resting between two blue lines

The pen has been drinking; he’s burned the roof of his mouth
He knew the liquid was too hot to consume, watched the stem roll out and spell doom, as he unhinged his jaw and yelled, “Down the hatch”
The blisters that form only make him want more as he licks them with his ballpoint tongue, puts pressure to the skin, lets the explosion begin
Watch the corrosion take hold and silence all words within, cause a loose leaf avalanche sitting in awe as white pours over 26 letters
Taking no prisoners to write home of being starved, no flags to say we surrender
Leaving nothing but a glass of whiskey on the rocks to make him feel any better

The pen has been drinking, and I’m pretty sure he’s been drunk dialing again
Writing to girls who’ve moved on and changed their address because they never wish to speak to him again
He’s playing with lit matches, seeing how long he can stay calm before the flames kiss his skin
Stabbing his switch blade knife between his five Pilot P-500’s to see which one will loose and which one will win
But the answers always one more breathe, one more stab, one more day away
And the problem is this half empty pen is not sure how many more tomorrows he can take
So he writes his songs, and he writes his poems and he pretends the day will never come
That the pen remains empty, and the songs no longer come

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