by Skylar Blue

Created on: March 27, 2010   Last Updated: February 13, 2012

This river of ink that is my words’ blood.

It dances and twirls when moods are calm.
It jerks and cuts when tempers flare.
It soaks and saturates when tears cascade.

How strange it is that such a humble object
Can create worlds we only dreamed of.

A vessel from which my soul takes form on paper.
From which the insubstantial becomes tangible.

Yet, it is so easily discarded-so easily forgotten
Amidst a sea of technology.
So readily available that perhaps people have forgotten its value.

This ink, the blood of my words.

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