Color Outside The Lines

I saw the candles burn out, just in time for the sun to come up. 
I waited on the feeling of my breathing to inspire me, but when I stood up, 
the clouds made me choke on their grey reality.

I consumed the blackness of coffee, hoping that I’d stay awake long enough for the feeling of immortality to fade but, as we all know, that never happens. 
So I floated into a false dream where the scent of the flowers was enough to keep my legs

moving, and the idea of being complete with rage was nonexistent. 
Then I woke up, and my eyes were still open. 
And in my hand was nothing more than a pen with the ink of purpose.

 It was then I realized that the truth of my existence was in the flick of my wrist. 
Everything I’ve ever known was bleeding out. And the tiles were soaked with the stench of loneliness, but I still had a pen. 

And I still had a brain. 
And even though my hands were stained with self disgust, 
I wrote to the ones who have no thoughts. 

To the ones with tiny feet and hands the size of flowers. 
To the ones who can’t complete their thoughts. 
And to the ones who have no where left to run with the wisdom they’ve contracted;

the wisdom that they’re never getting out of Hell without a plan.
And my plan stays blank. 
Just like the paper, lined and crisp.