The pen feels permanent
So that when I raise the black liquid to my crimson lips
I must drink that steady flow of words;
And I am forced to swallow the bittersweet tang of my meaning.
When I try to wipe the droplets of dark wine from my stained lips
I find my hand comes out clean
But my lips, a little darker.

The pen feels permanent
So I must hold the cup steady
Or shadowed words will fall
And when I try to clean the dark blood
From the smooth floor
I find my crimson mess only spreads.

The pen feels permanent
And I will write each black word with care
So that the cup will stay untipped
And the words will remain unspilled.