India Ink

A small bottle

A brush

 Heavy paper

  Covered in crevices

   And teeth



      It takes pressure

       To start something

        To open the bottle


        To put the brush down


       It needs to

         be controlled

                    Or else ink

                   Consumes the

                      Brush and paper


                                                                  The center

                                               It always starts in

                                                                      The center

                                                                 Pooling and

                                                          Eating through your

                                                                                    heart begins

                                                                                                racing and


                                                                                                     your lungs

                                                                                              whistle as they

                                                                                             try to grasp

                                                the air that

                                                       gave them

                                                              life but


                                                                      all that comes

                                                          out of my mouth

                                               Is the sputtering


                                                          darkness wrapping

                                                                 its tendrils around

                                                        my neck and chest


                                                          as I scratch and

                                                                         tear at the creature

                                                                                              sitting on

                                                                                                     my ribs


then everyone says I

shouldn’t be so dramatic

about spilled ink


This poem is about: 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 



This is a great way of making a poem about anxiety. I like it.

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741