A strange case of...

 

 

I channel what strength I have left into this pen

And shatter the last of the voices in my head 

You can see the struggle frenetically played out on the page

A tragedy of Grecian proportions

Played out like a child's bedtime story

Whispering the black nothing's of the inks desire to be turned into something meaningful 

 For the ink sits in it's vessel, in wait

It means nothing if it can't be coerced into leaving it's confinement 

I am the Prophet through which the ink can express itself, using my words, so that it may become less artificial, and more existential