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