Writing.

Sweat escapes from nib to page
A darkened bitter sight
And even at, this jaded age,
I make sense of it all as I write.

A splintered future, left unmarked
The dreams I owned were thieved
Taken by a shadowed hand
Who mocked me as I seethed?

And now I am, just paper, pen
Tomorrow's so uncertain
My destiny had been afraid
And hid behind the curtain.