For the writers

Ink

Seeping out of every pore,

cutting a swathe of 

righteous, pure, indignation

upon us all.

This ink, that slowly

courses through my veins,

through my half formed thoughts,

my selfish wounds,

winding a path of terror,

through mind, body and soul.

This icicle of a heart,

beats poison through 

these broken veins,

coursing through my body,

my sacred kingdom.

I tremble,

as it claws 

at my insides,

it reads my very heart,

paws through my thoughts,

toys with my desires,

it plays with my strings,

I am a marionette,

dancing to my masters tune.

And still,

I swim, 

through this dark liquid,

its dark dreams

oozing through my pores,

seeping into my lungs,

I cannot conquer it,

it shall use me,

as it does others,

its will shall spill,

onto unblemished,

pure paper.