pen on placid

the ink

on my fingertips

is the only

thing that’s

keeping me awake

if i chisel

my mind with

words, maybe i’ll

past make

when the rot

in my imagination

is spreading

like a disease

It prevents

me from spoiling

into debilitated bliss

the rusted

gears turning

whilst ejecting

the carbon dioxide

the ink

on my fingertips

is the only

thing that’s keeping

me alive.

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