Words like ants, running
up and down my arms, scrawled
blindly in the middle of
the night, when ideas come calling to tap
in my tired mind. Black ink, blue
ink, green ink, brown ink, colors
seeping through my skin in a rainbow
of painful letters until my blood
sings the lines of my poetry, mixing
with my ink until I think words
must flow naturally though my veins. If ink
is to become my blood, how long
until my ink runs out and my blood
starts to become only my red ink?