The ink?
The ink is the tears
For a mourning writer
Who found refuge in writing.

The ink,
A black stained scars
From a writer's heart
Who carve their thoughts in blank pages.

The ink...
It serves as a photograph
From a writer's mind
Through pen and paper.

The ink
Is like a paint,
The brush is the pen and
The canvas is the paper.

Crowds are everywhere,
Busy transportation,
It's about to rain;
I'm still walking alone,
I don't have any idea
Where to go—
Raindrops started pouring,
What do I do now?
Where do I go?
My home is gone,
They leave me at six
What do I do in this busy street?

Terrified eyes looked into mine
Bloods dripping through my knife,
I shook my head and back out,
It was over,
I can never recover,
Few minutes you close your eyes,
You never breathe nor you cried.

Believe me when I say this,
I am not bad,
I am not bad,
Just confused all my life,
I am afraid,
Yes I am!
Please don't be frightened,
I am not.
I am not mad at anyone,
Can't you see I am just hurt?

Is it my fault to drag you in a hole?
I heard your screams,
I saw your hand waving,
Suddenly you came unannounced,
Saying I am a monster,
No I'm not!
I am not bad!
I am just confused all my life,
I've been living in a lie,
I've been locked in a pitch black box,
Is it my fault?
No it's not.

Cold blood stained my hands,
My sniffs turn into loud sobs,
I throw myself to the ground,
I scream in the top of my lungs,
Your lifeless body beside me,
Seems whispering in my ears;
Blaming me for the sin I didn't do
I never killed you.

The bags under my eyes
Can't support the weight
Of stress I carry everyday;
The bags in my eyes,
Can't carry the heaviness
Like my world is tumbling down;
When does my bridge fall down?