Ink Stains

fountain pen

Ink Stains

A blot of ink stains my sheets,
I notice it on another sleepless night:
tossing and turning, thinking of lines
while my skin turns luminous and clear
so that my veins become a web of blue on skin
and I realise they are filled with ink, not blood.

Ink stains my brain, leaks into everything
until every thought becomes a poem
and every secret, every piece of me is written;
I realise I have made my life a poem,
though everything I own is marred by ink stains.


3 thoughts on “Ink Stains

  1. A love affair with words! Beautifully written

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s