The urge to make
Pretty patterns with ink
On the delicate peice of paper, wanting emotions
Making a small blot at the end of my confession,
Sinking all my life's recessions
Thinking all the time I didn't do my work with precession
And left everything just to decorate a small peice of paper with agression.

All these little letters mean a lot
But they are a patch in my life
Just like the unwanted ink blots,
They won't wash away
And if they do,
The patterns would merge with the cleanliness
Moving on to the gutter's way.

My words are my life
My soul doesn't matter as much
For if I give up my soul, these rife
Words would thrive
At some corner of this huge universe
Just as small as a seed of sand,
They'll live forever
Even as little ink blots,
Someone would someday discover
There tiny dots
I am not the one who cares if
He reads it or throws it away
But mark my words as I say
My letters are alive
And in someone's heart these blots will forever stay.