Empty ink pot for a heart
Oh dear,
I feel guilty,
That it's back to writing fictional love poems.
____
Should I feel bad,
That I can't write an ode to you, love,
Out of nowhere?
Or, maybe today's my brain's off day...
Or, my heart's off day?
____
What I mean is,
They're not flowing anymore,
These feelings,
They'd stain numerous pieces of papers,
They seemed to never end,
The way they'd gush out of my pen,
Until I forced the pen out of my hand...
The way,
My fingers would have a mind of their own
As they rapidly pressed
Different keys.
____
Never-ending,
I thought...
Bottomless,
I made myself believe.
Believe that in my heart
Was a bottomless ink pot,
Special ink,
That had only one purpose -
To express what you make me feel,
And to remind you why
Your imperfections, are what make you perfect.
____
But,
Today,
It didn't work.
Ink wasn't flooding my journal,
With some sappy poetic lines.
My fingers gave up halfway,
When my heart reached a dead end.
It said, in a dismal tone,
"Why do I like her again?"
____
And it's question
Was unanswered...
The ears that spoke of your lovely voice,
Remained quiet.
The lips that said you were pretty,
Didn't even quiver in an attempt to give an answer.
The brain, that couldn't stop thinking of you,
Was dumbfounded by this new development.
And my heart,
It frowned as it said,
"Looks like the flame's dead, boys."
____
And,
I don't know what I'm saying,
I'm not sure if I just said,
"I don't like you anymore."
But what I'm trying to say is,
"I've got an empty ink pot
For a heart."
But,
Who knows,
Maybe tomorrow,
It would get a refill...
YOU ARE READING
Writer's Whispers
PoetryIt's only at night that you hear the faint whispers of the writer's pen trailing paper. [COMPLETED]
