If you cut me open

I will bleed ink -

The blackest pool

In which to sink.


It will seep into your mind

And leave stains on my fingers –

There's no form to its existence

Yet still it lingers.


And soon my hands are coated

With my blood – the ink,

As I try to force it into shape,

Forging link after link.


It never complies,

And my rhyme never lies;

And my mind is howling

Its unwritten cries.


Day after day,

Week after week,

The words they spill,

An incessant leak.


They lie on the page;

They have no business there,

Sitting there uniformly,

Without a care,

Whilst I try to make sense of them.