The etch of black ballpoint pen
creating images
that can barely express
how I truly feel inside.

The tug of a razor
the blood that pulses in my veins
is what keeps me alive,
yet is my only death.

The words that flow from
my mind to the paper
are my only connection to reality
my only outlet,
to show how I feel.

I can't say in words
exactly how I feel,
and I can't speak through this
mask of pain.
Nobody knows me
Nobody cares.

The ink of a pen,
the sealed graphite of a pencil
only released by my petty
words,
but nobody knows how I feel
the sad part is,
I don't even care.

My only existence
is just the pulse of my heart,
and the ink of my pen,
and the pale white shade
of my paper heart.

Nobody knows me,
nobody cares
That's all I know,
besides this false pretense
of life.