|| pen exhaustion

 

my hands full of ink, my pen doesn't seem to run out. it pours all it has to my hands, perhaps giving me its last prayers. my pen's last bit of hope as to what I write. my pen, does not approve of you still being the thing that covers my pages. it cries out like a wounded mother. 

my pen doesn't seem to realize, that why I waste it isn't out of love but of regret so it pours itself a glass of wine on full moon nights as I write,

as I step into my new age of being.

my pen, exists entirely as it is.

exclusively.