Black Stains

i dab my fingers in it,
the pitch ink leaking from my pen
and I wonder why I still use this color.

A splotch of ink falls to stain,
Yet I,
I watch as the pretty patterns
Bleed across the paper.

It's so dull and lifeless,
a dried husk
with no heart
no mind
and no soul.

The words were meant to
speak,
To tell stories
To bring:
enchantment,
desire,
pleasure...

But my pen
Bleeds across the page
And the words blur with
tears.

I brought pain,
despair,
longing...

It's still too soon,
too easy to lose myself,
and to write what I feel,
too personal.

The black is too dark,
a night without
stars
or
moon
or
light
or
End.

Perhaps brighter colors,
and brighter words,
less heartfelt and
more false.

Pink would capture
a pretend heart...

Or purple a coward's
donned mask of
Kingly Valor...

But I still see the
stain.
Dark and foreboding
on the paper.
And it is so smooth
to the touch,
and it calls me,
tempting me,
enticing me...

Pleasurable pain,
desire and longing,
enchanting despair,
And

a lost poem...

desiring despair
longing for pain

And black ink
leaving
Black stains

A crinkled paper....
withered body