Dribbling down his shirt sticky,black ink tainted by a soul tattered and inert. Thrusting forward as a blade, reaping backwards annual tears- a childs scream shatters the mind. My fear is inertia, compelling me to find the silence I crave --a dark hole in the ground. A pod can be found, and blossoms bourne. Ground into dust, a life taken-so, torn. I'm ready to find a silence in the depths of the sticky black ink. Dripping and dribbling--toward its' final conclusion. A pen I am not, a tool to be abused. A strange fool to be evaluated and penned a prescription. I am a child, screaming into the night--broken and shattered and enraged and hopeless. I am the one who survived and finds no solace- I am the black sticky ink that slowly bleeds away into non-existence.