My hands are covered in black blood of the child I just murdered.
The ink that ran through its veins now splattered up to my elbows
With my tear streaked face
I carry my bloody deed to the grave with no name for the child of inked words
The child was of many words that’s why it had no name
Now lays tattered and torn at my feet
There will be no trail for this deed as I pat the fresh dirt smooth onto the grave
For I created the inked so I have the right to end its life but
But it still hurts as much as it would have if the child of inked words
Bled not words and ink but red and the ending of a beating heart
Children come in different shapes and sizes
No matter if the child is of paper, ink, and of an author’s imagination
It’s still a child.
Bright and innocent…
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts of A Wondering Mind
Puisi"To the stories to be yet told or written, and the friends met along the road of becoming a Future Author." Jasmine S.
