Into the black ink that is the fuel to my dark feather point
Which drips into words as fast as my dreams into nightmares.

Every thought I write is like a needle
pointed to pierce but not sharp enough to cut into my own heart,
only to show myself how sick I really am.

I spill the ink on my hands so I can taste my words before they even exist.
Quite a strange taste to come from my ink,
like the black blood that appears in my dreams
Because I bite my tongue in my sleep.
When I awake the ink drips from my mouth and onto the floor never to become a word...