My pen ran out of ink a long time ago,
before that it was a paper heaux,
spreading its liquids amid different pages,
faithful only to the creative stages,
wages given and taken, the hearts of lonely women & men breaking,
Still photos set to the tempo of nothingness,
there is no sound which abounds in it's writteness,
I mean it was writing less,
I was unable to clear from my soul the stress,
which leads men to cardiac arrest,
My pen ran out of ink,
barren unable to produce a production,
of which this void I am stuck in,
trying my best to escape from the penless self hate,
and so I spoke,
I opened my mouth,
exposing all my flaws,
cavities, halitosis, broken teeth,
bruised tongue,
dry mouth, just trying to get this shit out,
But my pen was barren.
About the Creator
I AM. Master of Arts
I love all forms of art and hope to create a master piece in each one before I die. I'm an alumni of Ashford University, double BA in Psychology & Sociology & MA in Psychology. The art of thinking is the most appealing thing to me.
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