The Used

January 2, 2010
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The headphone jack goes into my arm

I can hear my pulse through speakers

I can smell the sweet ink that poured from the pen

It’s fresh

It taunts me

“The taste of ink is getting old”

It burns my mouth

And my pulse changes to guitars.

My whole soul shakes with the bass

And I scream

“Take it away.”

The knot in my chest lessens

But it’s still there

The depression, the anger

It smells like cigarettes and alcohol

The human canvas

Just walking art

Eyes stare at me from the back of an arm

Telling me

“I’m not listening”

The Ink on paper catches the cliché

Changes it, forms it.

Everyone reads it,

Judges it.

I close my eyes to the music

“I’ll be just fine, pretending I’m not.”

People walk around.

Let it go, let it go.

No more of this heart’s lies.

No more. No more.

Just let it take you.

Let it take you

Take you away.

The music

The Ink.

The broken words that litter pages upon pages

Scattered on my floor

The smiles from my childhood

From years of playing pretend

They stare at you.

“Waste some time with you.”

They’ve gone foggy

My vision disappears.

I’ve been used.

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