8 in the morning,
I picked up my pen
the reflection of me, in the glass
did the same
I wrote, she wrote
she smiled, I frowned
I wrote;
the stories of fever,
arthritis and cold
I wrote,
the drugs that I don't take
but, still numbs my soul
I see,
she wrote the rain,
colors and rainbow
threw the stars in the sky
splashed the blood on the floor.
12 in the night,
I pick up my pen again
I am at peace and out of restraints
I think
I think
and I think of the beauty, the pain
my ink can flow
I think about the untold stories
hiding in my soul
I look at the girl still writing in glass
digging out the stories of love,
uncovering the mysteries and past
she was smiling a little more
writing faster drowned in thoughts
3 in the morning,
The weight is now unbearable to bore
I cannot move my pen anymore
the thoughts are flying
with my mind in chains
her smiles have turned
into laughs wicked
She is in the glass
but, I am the one caged
I kept knocking around
like a real slave
while she kept writing
page by page.
