Read Poems by Beej Simrov

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Ink

The ink of storms wreaks havoc on the unturned page.
Pulped filaments flop face-lessly before eyes once warm, yet frigid cold.

Daring not to expect much to read or write,
I stare blankly from the aughts of night. 

Stars are but memories from books,
Overshadowed by polluted distances, smudged by the burn of business bustling below in the barrel. 

Fish flop, and folios fold upon themselves, as the Sun circles this tip-toed Sphere.

My mind seems diagonal to the lines within this verse; un-unitarian against the it that I am not of.

Am I the ink?
The reader?
Or do I draw its lines?

I've not felt the sense to be, see, nor write, so what is it that am I? 

A passerby upon the paragraph, pretending to play in presents performed en troupe. 

Pathetic.

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Susan Ashley Date: 6/28/2025 1:42:00 PM Dear Beej, your verse stings with angst and rebuke for yourself, for the world. Your imagery is sharp and ripe with emotion that is viscerally felt. Your ink rips the page in furrows of despair. Did you draw the avatar? Is that a self portrait in charcoal? Warmest wishes, my poet friend.. ~Susan
Andrea Dietrich Date: 6/28/2025 10:40:00 AM You write very differently from me. I appreciate your swordsmanship, Beej
Jacqueline Elston Date: 6/28/2025 3:27:00 AM well written. it made me think of a time long ago when l suffered really bad deep depression, lv always wrote a lot but during those times l wrote to get my anger out. only problem l didnt know what l was angry about so my writing back then didnt heal me. When l finely found myself, that im a imperfect human, when l let anger go fr inside me,l realised l was yes imperfect but had a good heart. l healed. Ink can be for good and it can heal. May we all heal though our writing. J.

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