My Ball Point Pen

It was messy,

and chaotic,

and I watched as it festered

and as it grew. 

With glue on my fingers

and ink in my heart,

I painted a picture

without any paint. 

They said,

"Set it free."

"What's it?"

I asked.

I never got an answer. 

I was left in the mess,

and I watched as the ink in my heart

ran through my veins,

right to the tiny tip of my fingers. 

And I left it there-

a black, chaotic mess. 

Bubbling and troubling,

it festered and grew-

until one day,

I cut myself open

with a ball point pen. 

I pierced my skin, 

slit my wrists, 

went straight to my veins,

and I traced it back to my heart

and to the heart of the mess. 

It was a scribble full of frustration,

poisoned by a quiet, anarchic mind. 

I stared at it, 

at the messy chaos, 

and I smiled. 

I held a crooked smirk 

as I crawled into the mess

with my ball point pen.