She picked up her pen,
With her wounded hands.
Bleeding knuckles,
And bleeding wrists.
Hands shaking,
She couldn't even hold it.
But the instinct,
She couldn't control it.
With tremendous effort,
The ink is blotched,
On a stained and ruffled paper.
Instantly, the color spreads,
Draining the colors out of her,
As she writes her first word.
It was like a painting.
Her words were like 'The Starry Night'.
and she was like Van Gogh.
She mixed her tints,
As she wrote her masterpiece.
Shades of blue from the ink.
Shades of red from her wrists.
Shades of black from her heart.
Shades of transparency from her eyes.
The words came out of her,
Like a huge tsunami wave.
Black and blue.
Disastrous.
A damaged truth,
It was chaotic but it was her.
The paper was ruined,
but the message was clear.
As she pained the final star,
Of her Starry Night,
Her hands stopped working,
She pulled herself down.
A stinging pain,
In which she was drowned.
Her eyes blacked out,
Her head, now absolutely clear.
She breathed a deep breath,
and let all of her out.
With her masterpiece right next to her,
Explaining her purpose.
In the end,
She finally found her solace,
Her tranquility.
//a.v\\
YOU ARE READING
{ Inked Pages } (#Wattys2016)
Puisi"Words are things and a small drop of ink, falling like a dew upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think." "One pen. A piece of paper. A complicated mind. An entire universe." ...
