You think I bathe in

light – in prosperity,

but really I'm sinking,

grasping at straws –

little lines of blackness

that form letters that form words

that I'm not sure I understand anymore.


Your despair is unfounded,

and just as present in me,

because I fear my ink is

running dry and becoming



But this is all I understand,

all I know, in the inconsistency

of life. All I know is learning

and these black marks

on my page.

I love it, the smell of blackness –

the chemicals in my pen and

the dryness of my page.


But there is no more skill in my fingers

than in yours, just a desperation

to not fail.

I clutch my pen, my weapon, because

I own no other refuge.

Because there is little incentive or dry wit in me –

that which I have, I've bled dry from the ink of others.

These marks upon a page, between set lines

and the sentences I string,

the books I read

with their symbols and signs

are all I have.

Hey Alex, I wrote you a thing. :)