Inked My Poem

A blithesome INKER am I, INKING my way,

INKSTONE is the hurt I have received all through,

Not to forget the moments that make me joyful,

But I can’t speak, and there lies my problem.

INKY, my heart, can now witness the light,

O, I am so glad for it is finally seeing a breakthrough,

INKBLOT is my paper, er, MS Word now,

Myriad hues of my life gently preserved.

Long time ago when I have first suffered a massive damage,

I have got this INKLING to write about it,

Unburdening myself then I have felt better,

A chunk of angst has gone so soon!

Now I am scared of becoming INKLESS,

But I don’t want to be the boring INKHORN,

I can embrace a block for some days,

But never an egghead, made fun of always.

How I wish to be INKBERRY for my beloved backstabbers,

But then I comprehend, wasting time and energy,

A limited amount I have, it’s not feasible then,

So better I dig up my INKWELL, and let them taste my INK.

I secretly admire the small INKWOOD tree,

With its showy white flowers and abundant fruits for the birds,

It’s strong wood and dark berry juice as INK,

A variety of services for mankind, humbly offered.