Ink in My Veins

They say poets drift on the edge of madness,
but truth is—most of us are steady,
just searching for release
in the quiet scratch of ink.

Through pens and pencils,
keys and quills,
I carve my spirit
into verses, sketches,
songs and fleeting lines.

When sorrow weighs me down,
I write.
When joy overflows,
I write.
Whatever stirs in me—
I let it spill,
page after page,
until the weight inside
becomes lighter.

The ache in my fingers is a small price
for the freedom in my chest.
Each word leaves me whole again,
reminding me I am enough.

Art has always walked beside me,
a faithful companion,
and it will stay with me
until my final breath falters,
until my hands tremble too much
to hold a pen,
until my mind grows quiet.

Still—
as long as breath lingers,
I will follow the pull of creation.
I will write when I must,
dream when I can,
and leave behind
a trail of stories
woven from my soul.