The ink smears in my closed diary, glows fiery,
Leather’s worn, my pen makes feathers mourn,
My lonely pencil shows dull, the wind blows cold,
The rose sold, its pedals, as soon as it grows old,
My pages filled, the flows are different rages killed,
The stone cold traces are time stopped, ages stilled,
The loose leaf is the past, it’s no longer obtuse beef,
I am locked with a brass lock, inside an empty cage,
My wimpy rage, is my poker face, I simply change,
But I think rains, have dripped on my long ink stains,
Whether it be wide ruled, or the college ruled lines,
I’ve wasted, and feel sorry for all the fooled pines,
Satan’s favourite numbers now become pooled nines,
Somehow I see all the one inch margins are ledges,
Peaks forces mountains, as hardened scarred edges,
The greenery I smoke, is new gardens hard hedges,
Its hard to write with thorns, but I confide in flowers,
Drown in iniquity, but now I have Poseidon’s powers,
Now I strike, for I am a part of the most fright’ning cult,
My Ideas hit the notepad, it mimics Zeus’ lightning bolt,
Is it the growing god in me, or am just I showing oddity,
Pen held, I feel like I am Ra’s shoulder, hand, and knee,
I am a monster, I have the command over land and sea,
I control these words that I know, would proudly fight,
In the shining sun, pouring rain, or on this cloudy night,
I write with rocks, that would have been crushed today,
I tell my minions, put lust away, one’s too crushed to say,
I crush the lead with each barefoot, which lacks sandals,
Envelopes seal my letters with red wax from wax candles,
My pen swirls, a tornado, the ultimate of tongue twisters,
I compare these notebooks, as if I had two young sisters,
And when I lost one, she’s forgotten, like none missed her,
Eyes of Satan, slants at my level, the dance with my devil,
My skin is too soft to lift, it’s out of time, I run off the cliff,
My skin is no longer pale, the description is peach or mango,
My pencil dances the salsa, it’s his turn to teach the tango,
He teaches me the tango, and now my mission begins,
By listin’ my terrible three sins, and once he slumbers,
Six will be only digit left, I watch as he hunts the numbers,
My pen is my needle, ink my heroin, my only prescription,
It rots my teeth, when I speak, every word strips them,
I have listed each of the deadly sins, all written in sand,
When flows are written, they’re smitten when planned,
I close this diary, I stopped, but slowly I’m writing again,
My inner anger, is the only thing that’s guiding the pen,
I’ll silence my inner demons, forever I’ll be fighting the sin,
I’ll close the leather spine, I know that the weather’s fine,
The ink’s run out, but I know that this light feather’s mine,