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Twisted Nib

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writer's frustration 

angry tears,

of rage 

and inacceptance,

driving you into 

the crinkling parchment,

ruthless, careless,

pushing you deeper,

till your ink spills over,

and the dark, indigo 

stains my tablecloth,

like the trickling blood,

of a dying warrior,

twisted nib,

entwined with the ripped strips,

of parchment,

a picture,

of helpless love,

where fate, 

leaves no option,

forced into love,

and injured demise

forced to entwine itself

with roughened, crinkly parchment

the twisted ends,

bleeding relentlessly,

as tears well up,

slithering down its spine,

the remnants of its ink

the remnants of its life






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