The ink in the pen is the blood that courses through my veins. Dripping all my emotions onto the paper exposing my grief, my affection, my frustrations. I let my mind get lost once I see that first blot stain the blank canvas of my life. The bloody wounds of my journals are the evidence of the everlasting scars of my mentality, preserved for immortality; a blazing light of my psychological destruction. My words forbidden to be seen just as my mouth is banned from speaking. The blood in my pen says it all. The cap is the muzzle that may only be removed when deep thoughts plead to be released and cause a riot, a violent struggle to be let loose and satiated by the freedom from my damaged mind. They realize only moments later that they'll be imprisoned once more on the lines of a page, unmoving, unchanging. The ink of my pen is vibrant and captivating like the blood of my body, stinging as it's let free. That's all I can enjoy, writing my life story in a book never to be viewed, censored due to its gruesome nature, it's bloody ink is the poison from the writer's mind.