i.

a pen crept its way into my room one night,

and when the moon was mute,

it buried itself into my brain

and mingled its ink through my nerves,

and into my heart and with my eyes it cried so

now, through my skin and deep blue veins

fast runs the pollution of the pen,

which never stops,

and is racing,

and is lost.

ii.

I could write for hours, and no-one will ever know

why I am writing

or even that I am.

And are the two inseparable?

There is silence here, whatever,

and it’s peaceful to be alone,

but not forever.

iii.

who will ever find this here?

iv.

why did you think the last poem had ended?

here it is.

there.

now you have it:

poem.

v.

my mind is chasing places it cannot ever go:

vague, dark and fiery places

and I hold up my pen

a brief flicker of light

quivering as my heart

against these monsters.