INK

Little writer, why do you write?

Making fake stories out of all in sight.

That piece of paper is not what it seems–

That ink is really blood and broken dreams.

You’ve been rejected, can’t count no more.

Your writings are all that which you tore.

You keep on going, you’re on a high,

You can’t see fire; You don’t know why

But stories live in you and that’s all you know.

It’s what you’ve breathed, it’s how you grow.

These people aren’t just words on a white page,

They’re souls you’ve made, freed from a cage.

They’ve breathed the breath of given life

And they’re never leaving, but giving strife.

Have you ever loved what you should hate

That which ruled your shady fate?

This is how it is for us,

Crave that which can make us puss,

Want that which chokes from behind,

Toss the fruit, keep the rind.

It hurts to love but keeps us real

If we do that which makes us feel.

This is the fate of those who write;

This is our lovely, desolate plight.