a pen that bleeds 
ink on pale sheets 
which morphs to shapes 
and gradient fields 
into a notebook 
I bound in black 
embossed with names 
of my once summoned saints 
but the ones in need 
the ones we need 
are [bad word] back 
a golden shield 
shines and reflects 
but wasn't built 
to parry all hits 
to protect 
a vulnerable spirit 
in a fragile shell 
or a thought in your head 
you've never meant to tell 
I feel haunted 
and I blame everyone around 
when I should blame myself instead 
for a thousand reasons 
which I can find written down in a book I wrote myself 
And when I cross the last border 
(from the once in need) 
and burn this last meaningful bridge 
(from the once we need) 
I will finish the last chapter 
(and they will never [bad word] back again) 
and reach the final page of this manuscript 
then I will just close this book... 
carve my name in it's spine and dare one last look 
and for the memories 
of my futures' past 
there's this shelf; high enough 
for my regrets to rest