Dried Ink

Keybored, pencil or even a pen of feather.

Nothing makes a difference, Nothing matters.

For the ink fails to flow through my hands

as I try to summon the blackend dead sands.

I try write the sevean seas.

I fall down on my weak knees,

begging for the creative breeze.

Wondering. Why did it just seize?

One would expect it to slowly fade,

No,it just instantly leaves me in shade.

I try to write the words of time,

and make them dance and shine.

How can motionless ink dance?

It doesn't even have a starting stance.

Yet it still does, even in this blurred state.

My blood is black ink, for it is my birth fate.

Words of wisdom are usualy mine,

Some dull and useless, some shine.

But today I have nothing to spare.

How I wish I had a little something to share.

Like a lost child in a crowd,

I want to scream and yell aloud!

"Help me I cannot find my mother!"

"Nor my sister, Nor my brother!"

I calm myself and look at a flower.

Such a beauty, reminds me of nature's power.

A shade of blue like the massive sky.

Sitting motionless, it's life a lie.

The flower usually dances and smiles.

I have these moments written in a file.

Sometimes it bends down and simply cries,

But today it doesn't,as if it just died.

Then the flower makes a little motion.

That shook my mind's dull ocean.

I look at the flowers small little vines.

And I sit down, and write these lines.

Reviews

[Bubo]

seeze? seize?

Such a nice poem, why we write and all the things that evoke emotions that ensure we all do....ink comes to life when we do.