The Ink Will Flow

I cannot pour others frustrations on my ink

They will be blemished and willingly flow away from me

From the pages, like a river churning with dissatisfaction

While pouring my imagination, drop by drop, I try to arouse them

From being a simple concoction of writing aid to a sensitive fluid which can rush to communicate my feelings

The pen has to gather that courage every day before it touches the pages

Not to conquer someone’s stupidity or irascible criticisms

But the coherence of my world can only flow distinctly

The ink has to be resilient to all the hindrances and flow rather nonchalantly

Because it has to convey my deepest thoughts

It will only flow for a reason and not run away, blemished and discoloured


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