I’m tired:
I spew out my insides,
paint the peripheral world
a murky, inky black,
just to illustrate your sorrows
every day, every night.

I’m wondering
when you will use me
to write poems again.

I’m scared-
I’m curious,
if one day
my soul runs dry,
will you discard me
along with your sad scenes
or will you continue your line
off the page?