Ink on Paper

I am:
The master of these arts.
They are:
Beautiful with
Black lace and blue ink;
The coarse white only peeking through.
I made them
Dance, and move with
A stroke of my wand.
Conductor, magician.
Whatever I am, I’ll be.
But some
Are too beautiful, too graceful
For me.
Cut them out.
Put in the
Ugly:
Those who cannot match
The clear cut line of
Perection.
Here I go again:
A movement of pen or brush,
To twirl them and curl them:
These black and blue dancers,
With paper white skin.
Finally they stand,
Bow.
Each word an emotion.
Each movement a sentence.
Together, my ink dolls
Create my poem.
And then I cross them out
Again.
With this pen.





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