Silver ink snaking, slithering, sparkling like
drops of liquid starshine, night-sky blood
against such a blank and frightening ocean!
A map with no places, latitude no longitude,
stacked on one another like skin, punctured flesh
throbbing under aching fingers, scratching, scratching --
Wood on paper, etching the past in words,
the same naked quill I used to slit my soul
and slice open a hurting heart, once beating now bleeding
black and crimson pools of little light letters:
a lonely puddle, a mirror-pond, dabs of grey
in that white sea,
ivory sea,
silent sea,
hidden sea.

Black
May seem dreary,
But it is
The color of ink,
The river
Of creation
That makes
Stories
Soar

Sometimes
I just don’t know
Sometimes
I just don’t get it
A fluid line of ink on a page
Stops abruptly near the edge
Unsure of where to continue
What to continue
Pooling into a dark stain
On a once praised piece of work

I have wrote till the pencil
  is nothing more than splinters
              needed to be pulled from my mind.

But still I reflect my emotions
                        on blank spaces.
Nothing is visual, but is spoken
                                 on the paper.

I cant reflect on my words
                 even though
                      everyone is filled with tears.
Never wiping them away,
but filling each one
      with syllables descending tearfully.

I have never let another read a word
             that's blotched on satin white,
contaminating its moment with the
         silent verses that'll never be read.

My words are silent, I'm the lonely poet,
             who's verses are not even read
                                             by yours truly.
         there just moments blind on paper.