The Ink Speaks

You ask me— how does it feel? This slow bleed of words… This quiet magic made of pain— and ink. Let me tell you. It feels like this: The pen… hesitates. Just for a moment. Then carves its hunger into the silence of a blank white page. The ink bottle? It trembles. Not from fear— But from the weight of all it hasn’t spilled yet. Some call it a prayer. Others? A wound that never heals. Watch the letters. See how they sprawl— dark wanderers, with no home except this crossing point of skin and syllables. See how they blur at the edges— like grief. Like forgotten gods. And the colors— oh, the colors… Blue—like midnight’s tantrum. Pink—like a tongue-tip confession. Red—like a raw hymn sung at the edge of dawn. Don't talk to me about purity. Truth— real truth— stains deeper than any sin ever could. You want to know Where do poems come from? Place your ear— right here. On the space between a breath and its echo. Between the wound— and the word that dresses it in gold. This is where it begins. Where the unsaid turns liquid. Where the pen is just a bone whispering to paper: Take this. Make it beautiful.