I’m going crazy fighting fate with dollar signs

let the pen slide off the hinges, breaking the door down to a barrier barricaded by darkness and procrastination.

This pen of mine, I mean this weapon of mine, knows no harm.

Takes a period to make a statement but a sentence to put a man behind bars,

my words do the latter

I’ve been airing since the invention of diapers.

Don’t let the pen slide off the windows and call it window pain while licking off windex from your fingers like it’s ketchup, for the time you missed, you only got roasted lambs and no fries

I let the pain slide of the pane, for streaks to cover my splinters, blood rushing in my veins will I be talented or lose it all in vain — my heart pouting for success…

Like money, no one knows what is in between the heads and tales of death. We just know to keep flipping the pages, so we don’t get stuck in between — I’m stuck on the intro.

Is the pen mightier than I?

Or

Is “eye” mightier than the pen?

What makes your bones tremble late at night, as you push the needle to the hairline, beyond your outline?

We accustomed to wanna mold the world the way we want to see it, rather than the way it is. We spend our lifetime trying to force the world to follow our coherence. We force the needle to go through the thread hoping it will sew the past and the dead in a neat bow-tie, cause we want everything in a neat package handed to us like a new born baby.

Yet, you won’t even change the diaper of your child — your writing. The money starting to fade your talent, as you watch your self drown in the bills.

Only if you could drown in the bills…

No one made the game, we can all just play; but you don’t have to play by the rules.

I let the pen slide off the hinges because I think I’m going crazy fighting fate with dollar signs to relinquish my soul.