A pen glides across the page, leaving its blood behind
"You'd be proud of me" it reads, he was never enough.
As the scratching continued a story appeared, a description, a tale.
"decisions have been made, battle switches activated,
you'd be proud of me, and loathe me if you really knew..."
The faint glow of a struck match, faint wisp of a smoke-tail.
Dissipates around him as he takes a sip,
I write today to dismay you, the book will end as it sits,
collecting dust, a ledger of a battle fought in the past.
Our story was a beautiful tragedy, victim of a broken mast.
I write in a book now, my book of secrets, things I'm too coy to say
my mind tangles with words as I dream, things I could never say.
If I were so bold I'd show you, but giving too much would leave me vulnerable
Its where I lay my wants, dreams and visions, musings and thoughts that I'm too shy to scream
One book finished, incomplete.
One book born, unknown fate.
If you only knew, you'd be so proud of me
when I burn this book, I'll finally be free.
Who knows when that will come, will I be able to destroy
These perfect lines of life I'll create?
He trades the pen for his cigarette as he stares out of his window into the night.
Light smoke tails wisp around him as he closes the notebook and pulls out another.
He trades his cigarette for the pen...
Let me buy you a drink, let's compare scars.
Let's trade those stories, we both have them
Lets find out who's closer to the stars.
We don't have much time now dear,
what do we have to fear?
He leans back in his chair, trading his pen once again
"What do we have to fear" he says.
"The fear of being found..." He writes