I usually fall short; to frustration,
to fucking years of this.
And I guess that's why
sometimes the sadness wins
and I forget to smile for an hour or three.
I've had to put my faith in mortality,
and know that I'm not quite infinite,
and that seems to ease my tender papercuts.
Often my only defense against your A4 edges
is a forty-nine cent ballpoint that roars a response
to your blank, emotionless apathy.
As much as this pen on paper does its piece,
As much as I find solace behind my half-price sword,
When my only inspiration is my limited mortality;
I just put down the pen,