The light of the lamp reflects
Off the wet ink drawn across the paper
And into my tired eyes, creating the shine I long for.
I write, and write.
I create lines and pray to a god.
The greed festers, wanting to swallow each luster into my mind
To make me shine, like the stars I see in the sky.
But when the ink of my pen runs out,
And the marks on the paper begin to dry,
What else is there to do but use my blood?