Ink.

When you break
another
day;
There's nothing
left to
say -
But when you take
another
page,
We'll all be inkin' down...

Like the sun,
the one
great spindle in the sky,
morning's rest of a black sleeping beauty
close her eyes -
cold one,
with that bright-filled-night
alabaster smile,
skipping gently through the clouds
like tears of a child,
salty, bitter, and black-and-mild
in a wave -
a pen stays afloat,
bobs in excess of the bribe,
restless flot-sem
of black blood,
seeping wild thoughts,
it's life is live,
like the vein left carelessly razored wide;
they channel fear,
holes poked open
by giggling diamonds
dissapear,
and we're left to contemplate the message
they left
up there.

When you break
another
day;
There's nothing
left to
say -
But when you take
another
page,
We'll all be inkin' down...

In a way,
we coincide
like a new day,
drunken dawn in a simile,
bend, wave, and lay
like stone-broken blues,
singing too loud to reminisce
of the pain,
we can only shout the words
don't mean we're heard,
and the meaning gets lost
somewhere underneath the pillow-talk,
just let me rest
and sleep sweetly in your ears instead.
Put your hands inside my head
and grasp the blanket of stars
inside their cells -
you'll find the dream-machine
which moves my pen to tears.
Irrelevance;
we're dust in the wind -
but we're made of the stuff
where the its lips are from -
and she exhales us across the moon,
like an endless rage,
we engage
in those primal sacrifices
like religious animals
ripping from age to wage the wave -
let's monsoon,
and make shore we crash between the lines
on the next page.

When you break
another
day;
There's nothing
left to
say -
But when you take
another
page,
We'll all be inkin' down...

We write
to encite
the mind...
we break
the boundary
of line...
we scribe
to transcend rhyme...
we're inkin' fast,
too much love
to let the blood last...