Ink runs across a page -

the words can’t be taken back.

But that’s okay.  I wrote them to stay.

 

Lines run into each other,

trying to reach the end.

The ink spreads across the page.

 

I am that ink that bleeds from my paperwhite skin,

the ink that wells up and stains me,

cutting tattoos into my heart.

 

I am a closed book that opens for few

but contains an ocean of thought and heart;

I often drown in myself.

 

Each chapter of it is a different color,

a different language that I’ve learned.

Some end and other endure, but they’re all there.

 

I am a writer who has surrendered

to a life of improbable crusades,

and I bleed to show the world light and dark.

 

I am a shattered heart,

a whole mind, and a land of

dreams I often ignore.

 

I am a paradox, an empty page

with a million words,

a white canvas stained with black ink.

 

My words are quiet shouts

that echo in a dead room.

I am lost in myself.  

 

I don’t know what I am,

because a dictionary isn’t as

straightforward as one would think.  

 

I turn my pages, rewriting myself

so others can understand

the mess of words that is me.

 

And for the paradox, the story starts

just as the writing is done.

I am the last line.