the inkiness of night
creeps
from the rising moon,
down through the air,
turning all it touches to black.
a shroud impermanent,
but putting the world on pause
until it disappears
(as a cloud of smoke after air is blown through).

the rays of light
beaming down from that giant ball of gas
should fuel me, make me productive, producing, creating, loving, learning.
but instead, i toss paper *****
filled with cross-outs and ugly words,
mental ***** and unrefined ideas.

maybe it's because i need a little inkiness.

that night has to seep into my head and
darken from the inside out.
the words flow out,
exhaled breath,
soaking dusk light like a sponge and releasing it on the page.

things might need to be a little darker
but there's no shame in that.