Ink
Smooth, dark, light and runny, thick, damp, soaking into my paper - dripping from my brush.
If I could paint a picture, imagine the millions of dollars I'd make!
I'd be set for life, have no worries, I'd be rich.
The black ink I'm writing with will not look in the slightest like a masterpiece but like an error, an accidental splotch of black ink.
Oh, dear! This isn't good, is it?
YOU ARE READING
My Inner Demons | ✅
PoetryPoetry- "Although the two of us co-exist now, as one - tomorrow could be a war. A war between us, against you... But we are you? Does it feel nice being torn in two?" Here- -for us, the broken ones. For us, the broken, betrayed, and hopeless ones. ...
