My Pen
My pen bleeds me like a knife,
giving expression to my life.
Nothing I think, do, or say
will live longer than today,
unless my pen lets me survive
long after my demise.
Who will know much of me
without my written legacy
Who I was and what I thought
all my horrid demons fought.
My loves, my hates, my sins untold
bled on paper so loud and bold.
Hopes and dreams like shifting sand,
the passing of time I cannot command.
Was I a Saint? Was I a Sinner?
It's a moot point when death is the winner.
But my pen, a knife in reality
bleeds my life's . . . . immortality.