The ink hits the
paper mimicking my tears.Slowly bleeding into every fibre of the page, as if it were my own blood seeping into every vessel and veins.
It paints a sea of words and phrases that I can no longer decipher, concealed in the very grain that is intended to illuminate its meaning.
The pen taking the role of the traitor enslaves it, threating to cut off its supply.
Suffocating and scolding it for being so fluid and drippy.
Arguing that the ink needs protecting as it’s so inconsistent.
The ink pays it
no mind it was born to stain.
It cannot stop the rain!
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