Ink
It's not about the words, but the ink,
Blue and black in vibrant splotches,
Like bruises beneath skin
Victimized by hammering fists.
I want to plunge my arms into inkwells,
Into pools of lightstealing black,
And pour it over my body until I am
Enjambed with the stains of my skin
And only my eyes peer out.
I want to tilt my head towards heaven,
Pen upturned, and binge myself
Until my tongue and teeth are inundated,
Saturated as I am with ink.
I want to fill my belly,
Bloat and grow to bursting,
Paint the world with myself
Until only my ink remains.
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Comments
Apr 5 2009
this poem has stuck with me - it comes to mind again and again when i need to purge that feeling. well captured
Apr 5 2009
Hmm, someone have an ink fetish?
Apr 5 2009
*laughs* probably one of the few he doesn't
Mar 24 2009
Who says? I'm all 'bout writing some poetry on skin. Now I just need to find a nice sharp quill pen.
Apr 5 2009
Interesting Gabriel hmm..
Apr 5 2009
*shivers* mmm... fun
Apr 9 2009
I love the entire idea of this. Beautiful imagery.
The only thing I would question, is possibly changing the use of the word skin in the line "Enjambed with the stains of my skin". The stains don't come from the skin, so it seems odd to say stains of my skin. Perhaps replacing skin with something like work or art.
Jan 14 2010
Oh Gabriel, I absolutely love this.
Beautiful...
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