Ink Spots

I pick up a pen but the ink blotches
Black smears across the page full
Of memories and demons from
My head, I try to stuff them back
Inside to spare the world from these
Dark thoughts but the only way they
Find relief is through words, like these

Plain black. Bold. Written on crisp
White paper.

Somehow the message gets lost
When I break the locks with bolt cutters
And rust flakes to the floor, shimmering
Red in the waning light of the world turning
On its axis, I worry sometimes about letting
Them out, letting these concoctions wander
Their limbs gangling and eyes rolling in madness

Sometimes the writing doesn’t feel like mine
And the presence feels like theirs, their own
Signatures where mine should be, so I rationalize
I give them the power so I can claim back mine,
It still smudges, the ink, but I can overlook such
A small thing, in the gravity of such a situation
They don’t feed off the inspiration so much anymore.


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