This is my pen,
and this is how I behave,
I can't write,
so my pen plays the game,
I stand still,
but with writer's block it's not enough,
so I'll twist my rubber arm,
and let my pen bleed blood.
I grew up in the street,
and unbeknownst to me,
I learnt to be a thief,
and now I'm untrustworthy.
I block my door with a set of bricks,
I live in a good area,
but my mentality remains fear-first,
and the fear is something I can't lick.
The blood in my veins is blue like ink,
I hate my past life,
as its an excuse to drink...
I look at everyone from an angle,
and that's the truth,
I've been trainwrecked in my life,
if you were me,
you're blood would be blue too!
So I speak with my pen,
and not with my mouth,
these sheep who don't listen,
understand nothing about...
...what I deal with,
and by me that's fine,
as I can sit and write,
any type of rhyme.
This write was forced,
but what would you do,
if your heart only bleeds ink,
and it didn't bleed for you?
©Steve Bertrand aka. stevieb 20130402
