Black ink drips into clear water; it diffuses.
I am a pebble, thrown,
Skimming the surface until it loses;
I am submerged but not alone.
There is blackness all around me,
Thin but clearly evident.
Water bodies are my happy places;
Black is a lack of color- a numbness.
I could dive into the ocean,
But apathy would follow my path.
I am running, breathing heavily,
But I can't escape the crawling black.
There is an inkwell inside everyone,
But mine- I have acknowledged it.
Try as I have to escape the thoughts,
It latched onto the acknowledgment.
Once in my life, a few years past,
I dove directly to the black,
Hating the world outside my water glass-
The only way to block the mass.
Since then, the ink has followed me,
Bodies of water to water bodies,
Creating a film through which I see,
A subtle, haunting apathy.
We're not so different, you and I.
There is an inkwell inside everyone.
You are sitting on the lid of yours.
From mine, I am on the run.
