Not a thought to soon, I put my glasses that I wish I had, down.
I try to raise with all my anemic blood the leaky pen, my hand.
There is no paper, traces can be found only if I dig too deep, in garbage.
There is a thought that might get stuck in this dark ooze, no clues.
I write with my left, so all I do is spread the ink, like a tattoo.
I just want to write the present down, to relive it forever.
Never turn me into the past, at least not until the ink settles.