Writing in the DarkMature

this pen in my hand could double as my end,
a bit of ink poisoning,
would be subtle and nice-
though not a very honorable way to die.

it actually be quite a disappointment,
but that is what my veins are pumped full of,
failure injected,
happiness and success all rejected-

ink pots for lungs,
feather pens for veins,
my blood is ink and so sweet,
that Shakespeare would be delighted
to write his plays by draining
the darkest substances from my mental cavity-

my blood is tainted,
only fit for the floor-
animalistic in morals,
human in concept,
this pen in my hand
will be my cause of death.

The End

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