Ink spills over the void,
from it springs bliss.
For blank paper may be despair,
and the written may be peace,
but when the words are being formed,
when you are still the creator
assembling ideas from the abyss
when direction is undecided.
That is bliss.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 12:58 PM UTC
Ink spills over the void,
from it springs bliss.
For blank paper may be despair,
and the written may be peace,
but when the words are being formed,
when you are still the creator
assembling ideas from the abyss
when direction is undecided.
That is bliss.
I heard a quote way back in the day that said something along the lines of "Empty paper is hell, a written poem is earth, but when the pen touches paper, that is heaven." I decided to reiterate that idea in this poem.
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