A child clamoring for attention
Nursing at a fountain pen
Where its thoughts find no dissention
Time and time again

Wounded feelings soothed in theory
By the dark infinite ink
At least, although sentiment's dreary
It gives a child time to think

Querulous and single minded
On the hurt they think's been dealt
To others' suffering they are blinded
They take all lashes from life's belt

It's a crutch, a hollow fix
For the falsely suffering soul
Complaints and feelings do not mix
When happiness is the goal

I am one of multitudes
Who shoot ink through their veins
Whenever cruel harsh life intrudes
Dark residue remains