The time is one oh nine
and I find
myself, once again
picking up this pen and
letting the words bleed onto the page.

It is messy, it is;
ugly but I am
with every drop and
dotted 'i'
and I want to cry
tears of release because, you see,
it was all starting to get to me
and my chest, it heaves
seeing as I am a slave
to these pulped out fibres;
masochists by nature and
they are the only ones who can take
the pain,
though there is no rain
on my windows
but my roof leaks with black ink.