It would seem, sadly, that I am ink stained.
The darkness has stuck to my skin until it dissolved within,
seeping to saturate my veins before making a mess of my soul.
My typewriter requires it as ink, so something with meaning might
find its way onto a page and stay.
It takes the chaos in my mind and makes sense of the matter,
so much so that it almost resembles actual art.
The sadness isn't that I'm seemingly cursed, stained from skin to soul,
but that to be a poet and stain the world, I'm required
to open up a vein, so every soul
is ink stained.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
No comments:
Post a Comment