• If each day, the pen paints a point; at the
    End of the day, this is what I amount to:

    Mistakes tattooed upon my inky mind, awashed in
    "What deeds have I done today?" it becomes
    Superfluous play of dark color.

    Faces of men I've seen in my minds eye burn a
    Brand so painfully upon stocks of doleful skin parts.

    In the end, the mind, the body, the soul becomes
    Flooded with fresh black bitterness; what was once
    Optimism is now the tea of all the

    Broken Promises.