My ink is alive,
It’s breathing, it’s humming.
It walked right out of my paper,
And held my sore hands.
It’s alive, I swear.
It dragged me into the world.
Where the lines became my streets,
And the words are now called home.
“My dear child”, it whispered,
So gentle to my ears.
“It’s time that you see the beauty
Of all the lands beneath your fears”.
“Don’t let the darkness own,
What does not belong to him.
For those letters you’ve engraved,
Are the limbs beneath your skin”
The ink is alive, it talked to me today,
And it told me this world,
Will eventually fade away
But those words on your paper,
Will speak to you once more
And assure you that your pain
Will no longer make you sore.
The ink slowly died,
As it dried beneath my wrists.
It has become part
Of a world that now exists.
-
Author:
~c.y (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 21st, 2026 10:14
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship, Katie B., Tristan Robert Lange
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Comments4
Your poem revolves around the transformative power of creativity and self-expression. It explores the relationship between the poet and their writing, suggesting that writing can bring healing and a sense of belonging, regardless of the struggles one faces. nicely said
This is exceptional!
Ink a means of communication alive or dead. A good write
Cindy, wow…this really hit me. The entire poem feels like writing itself becoming a living companion through pain and survival. There’s something deeply comforting in the way the ink speaks here…not as magic, but as memory, expression, and healing. Beautiful write, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
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