INK

I struggled to write words that make sense
As if seeing them make sense
Could actually lessen this emptiness
That vague recollection
of what I had been
and what I should be

My pen scribbles up and down
A rollercoaster on a 0.4 tip
blank ink oozing
But do I know who I am?
Why I write? Why I speak?
No.

Yes.
I read their works.
Those with the fancy wordings and intricate plots
Those who tell about life
the truth
and the fairy dust.
Those with certificates and medals
proclaiming them best.

Best.
They say they did not plan it to be
Their offices were either chrome or steel
or just plain
birds chirping
leaves dancing
to the tune of the wind.
But they wrote. They had thoughts.
Inscribed by ink on paper.
Like me.
Now,
they just happened to be lucky.

Luck.
Once in a while, I think it has gone off far.
Traversing its own way
to leave me alone
gaping dumb
my sorry ass
hoping for it to land
on my palms
like the butterfly with the blue wings
early this morning.

Morning.
My clock says its way past one.
I hear its tick-tock.
A monotonous rhythm.
A reminder that I should close my lids to snuggle
Beneath flowery blankets with edges
mistaken for cheese
by mice.

Mice.
They scurried around my room.
Noses sniffing scents of likely and unlikely aroma
like my feet
after a day's work.
Geniuses with brains the size of my fingernail
outwitting the human ingenuity
of metal and wood
known as traps.

Traps.
Lay in every corner of the mass
of gray and white
matter, science called
a brain.
But words elude them
like mice
munching on my blankets
outwitting my traps
so like my thoughts
and words
that make no sense.

Sense.
I feel less empty now...thoughts start to empty out now
Up
Down
Up
Down
A rollercoaster on a 0.4 tip
Blank ink oozing
oozing
until ink
ran
dry