Rogue Ink
I am the rogue with ink-stained hands..
A poetess who never plans.
I gather moments, brief and bright..
And turn them into lines that bite.
I write the hum of passing cars..
The silence tucked between the stars.
The way a stranger’s eyes can speak..
Or how the strong unravel weak.
I taste the air before a storm..
Feel chaos shifting, taking form.
I hear the lies beneath the truth..
The essence left behind by youth.
No subject safe, no thought too wild..
I am both tempest and the child.
Who scribbles secrets in the dark..
And sets them loose with just a spark.
I borrow scents, I trap a sound..
Turn passing seconds tightly wound.
Into a verse that breathes and bends..
That breaks, rebuilds, and never ends.
I write of love that claws and clings..
Of broken trust and fragile things.
Of ghosts that linger in the chest..
Of wars that never seem to rest.
A rogue, they say.. I don't conform..
I write the calm, I write the storm.
For I don’t write to just be read…
I write to bleed what’s never said.
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