Ink Stains
Glory only comes after the shortfall
The tipping of our days down the waterfall
Our one and only end after every all
Till the deafening silence – no droplets
Such fame and fortune never graces us
Creatives with pen-dotted hands
So we spend eternities scribbling
Whispering prayers for tales to land
To be a writer is to desperately hope
Pleading rivers sink of glistening sweat
For these swirls to be the fate-twister
For this letter be the best seller yet
Only when bluing bodies bundle up
In twisted arms and weakened selves
In a coffin flicking shut like a worn page
Do works get selected from the shelves
My heart splits in two for the geniuses gone
Does Plath know her words revived it?
Does Austen know she made us belong?
Does Brontë know there's no Bell?
My words may belong to future centuries
I may not see a copy sell
Yet ink stains, indelibly sworn to paper
In these single blinks, flicks of a pen to page
They are my stories to tell
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