Type the typewriter,
Smash the keys,
The writer of type,
The type that the screen denies,
I search for a pen,
No one in sight,
A run to a comp,
Could last me all night.
So, I sit down in place,
And steady my face,
Gonna work on my pace,
Fill it up with grace.

Ignite the page,
The first words, or sermon?
I deny, when you comply,
Your every comparison,
a waking, long sought-after,
hollow cry.
Murmur encompass,
The compass points north,
I said "Head to the port,
Only to get lost forever more?"
Words of shining descent,
Like a cosmic egg from space,
Every indent line,
All the sticky grime...

And I sit here,
where I shall type away,
Got no where to worry,
about my Printer Ink Blues
Or my open-toed shoes,
Where I let the rain get in.

This ink dries in a pool of blood,
Shimmering red, and dripping black.
And as I finish my work,
I see, the unpleasent misfortune presented upon thee,
A lack of ink before my solemnful eyes,
No more left in my typewriter pin,
No more pins, to feel my typewriter slot.

And as I cry,
The ink goes dry,
And my work,
incomplete. Years gone by,
Pains fly and fly,
But they all pass, here,
As my ink dies.
Sorryz for me bad engrish.

Quote by OnlyIbanez12
I just cut myself shaving my pubes...