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Black Ink Pen

I’ve come so far just to end up sitting here.
Still, quiet, restless. Writing. Thinking. Scribbling.
Stop. Think a little more; write a little more.
Pause. Then it all flows out onto paper.

From my brain, neuron transmissions transform
Into muscular movements that begin to pull on the bones
Of my shoulder, down past my forearm to a restless wrist,
Through stressed knuckles and into colorless fingertips.

Dark ink tells the story of the emotions spilling out
By the falcon-like grip of the pen by an angry girl
Whom is composed of such a strong core with a
Sensitive mantle, surrounded by an impermeable shell.

No one knows the deepest secrets that lie within.
I very much doubt that anyone will ever understand
That trust has been a long lost treasure from my soul.
Still I don’t attempt to pursue what is dead and gone.

The want and need of avoiding disappointments
Have become the main reason for these developed
Trust issues, that being the reason why I’ve learned to seal myself
After being hurt once or twice, or three, or ten times.

So I am truly sorry, my dear black ink pen, for stressing you
By holding you so tightly, with such a magnitude of force,
Putting more pressure on you than can probably with stand much longer
So thank you, my dear black ink pen, for the relief you provide me with daily.





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