If my life were a book, written in ink,
It would tell a tale brought back from the brink
With sentences well constructed with rhyme,
Of inkblots made by wasting precious time,
Of full-stops, colons, and commas galore,
Filled with desire to learn, and explore,
Aging sheets of regret pondering the past,
Some wondering how long the story will last.
Only Death takes away this humble pen
It's just a small matter of how and when-
This book may never be a bestseller
But it will be honest- a truth-teller
That's unfinished and revised endlessly,
Until it joins the pages of history.

The midnight ink.
Perfectly dabbled upon the printed page
Or written,
I don’t discriminate.

The breath I feel in each turned page,
And the life in my fingertips
As they brush
The timid paper.

My thoughts,
Flowing blissfully by
In harmony
With the black type.

The lamp next to me,
Providing necessary lumination
For my endeavor.
A beacon of hope in the black room.

That is peace.

Like the torn pages of some book, my heart leaps in to look, dabs of watermark, screams with ache, shattering in the corner with a broken quil, scarttering ink
The spurts of red ooz, down the thin lining, skating through the white sheets
I think of, what my fears tend to paint, a terrible sin, taled by a dark saint
Robed in pale, clear as a glass trans, bears the spurts with that of an ink mark
Glows with the hit of ray, ignites the jealous spark of the impossibilities
S..sshhh!
It's breath, hovers my shoulder with a sticky wetness odor
Clenching and sniffing as if ripping my veins out of order
A slight touch of my hand spooked ****** ambience in a blink
Of that of some air brush smearing spurts of ***** ink...


©sim

The clown keeps a journal filled with his suicidal thoughts;
His face wet with paint and his hair soaked in dye,
he laughs to himself as he reads the words scribbled across the pages.
They crescendo like the build up of a joke -
splashes of ink blots suggest that his pen blew up before the punch-line.

He remembers a time when the earth was grey;
the morning dew seeped into everyone’s socks
and they walked around with heavy feet,
indifferent to the man beside him
walking on the bare flesh of his toes.
Then a stream of water dribbled out from the prank flower on his chest.

In a world so addicted to tragedy,
comedy is sublime,
like the nicotine rush from a cigarette.

Yet laughter is a bond so easily broken.
The white on his face can wipe away,
the lipstick can smear,
and the dye can fade.
But beneath all of that is a smile,
a smile that persists
because nothing is wrong
when the clowns come out.

It was not safe
So carefully laid out
Placed in a pattern
So neatly arranged
And I ruined it

I remember the flow
The way it seeped onto
The white parchment
Dying, staining it
A deep ruby shade of
re-
Black
A deep shade of Black

It shimmered
And seemed to dance when
Reflected by my
Dim lamp
And I was smiling

But the pain of my words
It was what forced me to
Destroy them
My organised statement
Simple, to the point, and
Something I wished to take back

So I did
I took all it back
And because of this my hand
Is soaked in
blo-
Ink
My hand is soaked in ink

And I regret
Nothing