A Poetic Death

My pen ran out of ink a long time ago,

before that it was a paper heaux,

spreading its liquids amid different pages,

faithful only to the creative stages,

wages given and taken, the hearts of lonely women & men breaking,

Still photos set to the tempo of nothingness,

there is no sound which abounds in it's writteness,

I mean it was writing less,

I was unable to clear from my soul the stress,

which leads men to cardiac arrest,

My pen ran out of ink,

barren unable to produce a production,

of which this void I am stuck in,

trying my best to escape from the penless self hate,

and so I spoke,

I opened my mouth,

exposing all my flaws,

cavities, halitosis, broken teeth,

bruised tongue,

dry mouth, just trying to get this shit out,

But my pen was barren.