Catch me if you can, they say,
these tears overflowing with sorrow.
Such a bitter bounty of pain they hold,
such an unfortunate fountain of fear
for what the future may hold
and such a ruptured remembrance of times past,
ghosts that weave in and out of the tapestry of my heart.
Call to my little angels,
flow down the mountains of my cheek.
Free me from the grief that silently slinks within me.
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”