a writing of mine turned open mic... eh, i don't know

the notebooks i kept were empty plates|
so i never starved, it was always words i ate|
i drank from the banks of fluid thoughts upon planks|
nailed down with the confidence of having faith|
this dull pen scribbles itself dry again and again|
its dullness, resonates beauty from the bud to stem|
-to the roots both deep and shallow|
till there's the white light killing all the shadows|
and yes, i don't have a life|
i'm a self-proclaimed outcast-with a pen and pad that writes|
all i care about is death and why the 'alive' dies|
my ancestors were full-blooded, but i feel empty inside|
so my pride consists of ink on a cold night|
-where i confide in a tablet and the glow of a light|
this pen writes and writes and replies my eyes|
-with my sacrifice and i-i love it|
the cruel, the few, the school, no one understands|
they probably do, but for me to find out isn't the plan|
i'd rather command words to slabs of wood|
-and cram books that could change my act|
-my pacification of bland and to the no answers when asked|
i'm past passin' shy to my class, i should-i'm going to make an impact|
"remember that quiet guy? that always sat in the back?"|

... and yeah.. that's as far as i got... i'll finish it later but not edit it in... its not meant for that... peace