I wish I could draw you a picture, the problem is I can't. These hands were not made to paint pretty pictures, these fingers were not made to draw flowery doodles. You used to joke and say that all I could give you was worded art. And I thought that was enough, but maybe instead of writing lines that would let flowers grow in the depths of your mind, I merely strung variations of 26 letters onto a piece of string and gifted you a prettily wrapped necklace of regret. Maybe instead of painting you a picture with words, I served you a jumbled bowl of alphabet soup. Maybe, instead of composing you a song that you would only be able to hear in your mind, I presented a piano to a world where everyone had their hands cut off. Maybe, I wrote you anthologies of poems and thought you would understand but you were still learning the alphabet. Maybe, I wanted to show you the fading vividity of a sunset but you were colour blind. Maybe you led me to believe that you would understand but you didn't.
-now, whose fault is that?
YOU ARE READING
Bleeding Ink
PoetryI will not pretend to be a poet. I simply lace letters into words, words in verses and these verses are my feeling which have slowly bled through the pages of my notebook. This is my "Bleeding Ink".
