Spilled Ink

October 28, 2016
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You are not human.
You were born of a thought and an accidental action,
A humble “I love you” in the face of desecration.
They poured ink in your veins so you could tell a story,
but you had too much to say and no one to listen.

A carving etched itself
On your beautiful blank canvas.
A cry for help, call to attention, solve with medication.
An expression of gratitude.
Your words drip into the morning.

You are not human.
You are strange and inexplicable varmint
Who speaks in riddles and thinks with stardust.
You are a creature of curiosities never understood.

Here you have written your words,
And here they shall remain;
of that thought, that accidental action.
Of the ink they poured in your veins.

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