The tapping, the clicking, the snapping, the twisting
The sound of hard wood vibrating;
Through the flow of word that teetering back and forth onto the pages

From the heaviest thud too the deepest rip
From the light chicken feet, to none at all
Onto the cheapest paper bleeds black, blue and red

We must not scream for she is not there
Only screeching of a thousand nails are near
My pink curds are dusted,
Dusted off my books
I leave my mark of who’s there

Only to confused and restless
My body is now too close; too close to know the smell
The smell of the #2,
That’s all I need to get away from

My Sharpie is fine,
My, Sharpie is bold
To bold too of a smell
That seeps in my mind

The Sharpie is to powerful
I must leave my mark
I need to do it now;
For only my pen is too light, to light to keep up
Confused on who’s there?
Last but not least
I’m here.