Black writing.

Writing makes me feel alive.

At this point, it's the only thing that does.
Not breathing. Not eating.
Not even touching what's around me or seeing it.

My senses have been pushed aside.
And I've been left with nothing.
Nothing but a mind that helps
play all the sad music within me.

As it bursts,
my melody sounds all gloomy and melancholic.
My hands move faster,
my pen rubs the paper in complaints.
Now it's bleeding ink.
And it's as black as the writing.