Spilled Ink .

My words are more than phrases set into a perfected sequence.

They tell the tale of a heart.
Feelings and thoughts that I am hopelessly constrained and bound to.

All represented in ink.

Ink that is not only spilled onto vacant slates of paper, but onto people as well.

Words that are kept from the view of others, and shared with few.

I spill my words unto people.

The ink of my tongue bleeds the feelings set in my soul,

and sometimes watch them be brushed away.

They dissipate and drain into an abyss that is greater than my own understanding.

So I grasp my pen, and begin write.

It spills its black ink onto these vacant pieces of paper, and the struggles of my heart tears off the page.

As my pen scripts, the ink bleeds and seeps dry.

I feel my heart pump, and the blood begin to empty.

Why does my ink spill onto pages that are to be unread,

 and scripted onto people who can not read them?

I do not wish to engrave myself and words onto these vacant pages any longer,

 where they are inevitably torn and ripped away.

There is a beauty that lies in the confines of my eclipsed heart.

They are

my words.
My ink.

Kept in a place that lies below my apparent exterior.
No longer wanting to be spilled.

But kept.