He Wasted My Ink
Splotches of black ink stain my diary and hands
most of them much larger than tiny grains of sand
splatters caused when he slammed down my well
hoping to end the love of poetry I never shall quell.
Fool is he for believing his childish tantrum and rant
would keep me from retrieving my pen, for it shan't.
He delivered his message with vicious brutal force
now I shall have a turn to take a retaliating course.
He underestimated my courage and now I seek
to pen my poems choosing adjectives less weak.
My writings shall not be contained in diary alone
Publicly I intend my poems to be read and shown.
He wasted my ink and inflamed my strong-willed desire
To rebel against the monster with thorns sharp as briar.
Well! I have a hundred pens and more ink to fill the well.
If I believed in Hades, I'd write him into the fires of hell.
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