Ink
Ink
There is ink in my blood,
Because,
Writing is a drug,
From which,
I’ll never be ridden.
Typing till,
My hands ache,
And bones sore.
It never stops.
My dreams are words,
Letters, prose.
My nightmares,
Are blank pages.
There is ink in my blood,
Because,
Writing is a drug,
From which,
I’ll never be ridden.
Typing till,
My hands ache,
And bones sore.
It never stops.
My dreams are words,
Letters, prose.
My nightmares,
Are blank pages.