Ink

I like to write with ink.

It helps me move, it helps me think.

Do you clean your hands in your own sink?

Do you beg others for your drink?

Morning comes, with its yellows and blues

And here I try to decipher the clues.

At night I fade, as that’s my excuse.

I don’t think it’s easy to go and let loose.

We often think we move on and forget

But what if my ink isn’t finished yet?

What if I still have thoughts and ideas still running through my veins?

What if I want to leave what remains?

My ink stains,

But it gives me freedom and choice.

Pull me too close,

You’ll forget I had voice.