bic pen?

here's the thing: i waited for you but you left me on the curb, chewing on this bic pen, trying to slurp the ink, maybe you left some of your think in there. i sat up in bed, an accomplishment in and of itself, holding the pen between my fingers like i found the feather of an angel's wing. i try to smoke it, but i couldn't get the damn thing lit. the bic pen of course. i lost the cap a while back. have you seen it? maybe you took it with you. it'll never be whole again, without a cap it'll dry out twice as fast and die well before it's time. without a cap it'll ink everywhere. sometimes i wake up and realize that my life's not going anywhere and that i'm no better than this chewed up bic pen. you used to write with it everyday. everyday. everyday until you stopped. sometimes i wake up and realize that all the blood's left my body, the whole bed is soaked with it, one hundred percent plus ninety-nine. i used to know what i was talking about.

here's the thing: i've been out driving, coast to coast looking for you, for what you wanted, and where i should be so that i'm apart of that journey. seems like i'm always taking the wrong damn road. i'm trying to live up to what you want to be, you understand? but it's hard down here in the real world. there's all sorts of mundane realities to deal with. the bic pen is a drum stick and i beat it against my steering wheel. we're not here. i'm drumming in a different scene for us. at least we have gas i think. i put the pen to my life and draw in a little more ink. i feel faint. so this is art and this is living. how very savage. i push the gas pedal to the floor and chug up a steep hill. the engine's hot and laboring. i know exactly how you feel...