Blues.

Blue ink stained the white pages,

my heart ached when I saw what I had made.

As I lifted my pen to write,

the pen cried, more than my eyes had ever laid.

The ink leaked, yes, it wept with me,

as I laid my bare soul,

I expressed exactly how I felt,

it heard and made two halves of me, whole.

Barely could one see what was written on the paper,

the "blues" had stained it, a mark that wouldn't taper.

This made me rethink, with a hint of unease,

what possibilities lay in the depths of these.

Could it stain my spirit, my heart, my soul,

leaving a permanent scar, beyond my control?

Regardless of these, I continued to write, 

wrote what my heart felt, all this while.

I concluded shortly after,

and started turning the pages,

when I found a quote, I'd written, which read,

"We are just birds, trapped in life's cages"