The Inkwell of Tides: A Poet's Dance with the Unseen Currents of Creation:

You stand at the shore of a blank page,

toes buried in the grit of half-formed thoughts,

the salt air of possibility stinging your eyes.

The ocean hums—a restless choir of what if—

its waves clawing at the cliffs of your hesitation.

Here, the horizon is a hyphen between almost and alive.

You dip your quill into the inkwell of tides,

watch as the first drop bleeds into the fiber—

a black star exploding in a cosmos of cotton.

But the sea is a fickle muse.

Some days, she gifts you kelp-twisted sonnets,

their rhythms slick with brine and rebellion.

Other days, she drowns your metaphors in undertows,

leaving your vowels waterlogged, gasping on the sand.

You learn to read the lunar script of her moods:

the crescent whispers, the full-moon tantrums,

the way she licks the shore clean of your footprints

when you dare to write your name too boldly.

One night, a storm—

your hands tremble like jetties in a gale,

ink pooling like a bruise on the paper.

You scribble fragments: lightning’s stutter, thunder’s throat,

but the syllables dissolve like sandcastles.

And then—

a lull.

The tide retreats, exhales.

In the wet silence, you hear it:

the heartbeat of a shell pressed to your ear,

the faint pulse of a poem not yet born.

You carve it raw, let the jagged edges stay.

No polish, no pretense—just the ache of a word

finding its skeleton, then its skin.

The page becomes a shore again, but now

it cradles something wild, half-feral, yours.

When dawn cracks the sky like a spine,

you step back.

The inkwell overflows with moonlight.

The sea, for once, does not erase you.