• I sit here with my pen:
    Words flow through my head.
    I stay huddled in my den,
    Back crooked without a bed.

    No matter how hard I weep:
    The seeds are already sown.
    To my heart, I keep,
    The knowledge that is not known.

    The ink spills:
    It bleeds black onto white.
    I sqeuze my hand shut, before it kills
    In a freenzy based on sight.

    My tock is qeuitly ticking,
    Reminding me that my time come's near:
    Death, in it's own way, is sickening,
    And so I shed a tear.