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asking for understanding

ink


	we write our verses pieces of our souls blood our ink on the pages a ball point pen it rolls leaving a scar or cut to maim too sweet, oh so bittersweet too much to name arch angels and lucifer oh to be but a muse, heaven is it harder when but young too soon from the dust or old and just looking for the final rest is first love lost anymore healed one point from another either way the pain was enough to have killed does any but another understand the power that takes over your hand your pen across the paper blood the ink and yet another scar oh.... but was it really that hard?

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