Whether with pleasure or pain
the ink always seems to stain
seems to leave its faint mark
bold yet subtle as any spark
How it is able to then ignite
every line within every write
all that I want to truly say
within these words I do play
No matter the color of my ink
I find myself lost upon the brink
at the margins of the page
ready to fall again off the stage
Tattoos I now give myself
return my dreams to the shelf
return my hopes to their drawer
where they await longing for more
Much like ash or soot
kept here forever underfoot
how my life does still hinge
upon the color of this tinge
now this is what I call poetry… not the shit I write… THIS
I for one beg to differ with your assessment. You’re a fine writer worth reading. And besides, I don’t friend request bad writers. 🙂
Like a mechanic doesn’t mind getting dirty, so the poet doesn’t mind a little ink spill.
Nice one, Dragon.
Thanks DF…
As always, you are so intriguing…
and I love the spatter
Thanks DK… so glad you enjoyed it…