I pull the quill,
From the ink well,
For I do know,
That’s where memories dwell.
Press the tip against my chest,
Let my heart drip upon the page.
Be you twenty or fifty,
Sixty or seventy more,
Do you enjoy reading of before.
The past is writ in books,
Pages for the world to see.
High school and college give credit,
Learning the history.
But I’ve no pages,
Press the quill against my chest and I will bleed.
Just blood on the pages to blur the words.
While at the end there’s only greed.
I fell pray,
And so shall you.
After all forgive and forget.
That’s just what we do.