You think I bathe in
light – in prosperity,
but really I'm sinking,
grasping at straws –
little lines of blackness
that form letters that form words
that I'm not sure I understand anymore.
Your despair is unfounded,
and just as present in me,
because I fear my ink is
running dry and becoming
But this is all I understand,
all I know, in the inconsistency
of life. All I know is learning
and these black marks
on my page.
I love it, the smell of blackness –
the chemicals in my pen and
the dryness of my page.
But there is no more skill in my fingers
than in yours, just a desperation
to not fail.
I clutch my pen, my weapon, because
I own no other refuge.
Because there is little incentive or dry wit in me –
that which I have, I've bled dry from the ink of others.
These marks upon a page, between set lines
and the sentences I string,
the books I read
with their symbols and signs
are all I have.
Hey Alex, I wrote you a thing. :)