this pen's stroke hang apprehensively
holding their breath for what they may be
what words may spring from one drop of ink
carelessly or carefully freed while I think

I jump ahead of myself, so the strokes do berate
my ignorance for their displeasing state
words are all I can hold on my own
offering a solace from a so-called home

though not only that, but from myself they do keep
a strong hold on the damn; yet I still leak
from my eyes or my fingers, truth escapes
no matter; in fluidity my thoughts are shaped

blood, tears, ink, et all

follow my path, and make sacred my fall