Blades

I knew this man
he said he was my fan.
He said I was fun
and in a sense, I agree.
I despise this place
and envy those who found a nook.
I am a fish,
my lip has a...

I began as a book
slipping into empty pages.
Yeah, I love the blank pages.
took a few spills.(of ink)
The painfull veins remain still.(I think)
Too solid to flow
and too flesh to rest.
My fan has a line
that he says all the time:
"My rhyme is my rhyme, and I am border-line"

The shadow of hope ( the cast black of home)
and glimmer of dought
have eaten me up.
(sorry.( if the cases could be any lower they would)

My freinds and the feinds
left me as it seems
and my seams have split,
cursor to core.

A four line failure
and a one-more-time rhyme.

A blink before gone.
I still sing the lonesome song
along with the dead and forgotten.
Rotten.
The drop in the bucket,
the "Fuck it!".
The "pull yer own weight!",
and the "hold up, wait!".
Great.

My fan and my hands
both worn with age,
trigger a thought;
A triggered gunshot.

The fan no longer spins.
The word no longer lives.

I thank you as you go.
Now go.

-END