Inkwell

I know what they want.
A jagged knife in the wrist
so, they can fill the inkwell up.
The unseeing clawing, greedy, hungry mass
That only cares about feasting upon the misery and crass
they create.
I grab the knife and accept my fate.
Twist it just so, piercing not my flesh,
but spirit and soul.
Drain the black out, just a bit,
and the bleak decay they've put into it.
Just for a moment I can see
The light of day shining through me.