It’s always the same — how I sink,
drowning in all this wept ink,
unable to finally cope,
to ride a fleeting buoy of hope.
I stare at all I dare now see,
caught in a doubtful infinity,
waves of unrelenting sorrow
sweep through my today, my tomorrow.
Still, I savor this salty spill,
as I dip once more my inked quill,
catching each lonely, falling tear,
etching lines to keep them clear.
Distilling down every single rhyme,
in order to thicken up my time,
I write through each sleepless night,
finding solace in my dark delight.
Bleeding myself dry upon the page,
I search for echoes of a forgotten age,
when the poet I once was...
never settled for merely “just because.”