The Secret of the Ink Pot
The Secret of the Ink Pot
You dropped me into a pot of ink, with such impact
that it spilled out all my secrets. That stained and bled
through every fresh canvas a new day would offer me.
I left traces on everything I touched because my
fingertips were smudged
with darkness.
I began treading ink after hearing it try to convince my lungs,
it was harmless.
To such depths of nothing made me realise the colour black
isn't even the darkest.
The ink trudged along with me through every landscape
that I tried to escape to.
My footprints would tattoo all moments of joy,
in a way that I would never choose to.
Though, it took me a while to realise, the ink
that once threatened to drown me
was actually filling all of the empty space inside.
Fortifying me and making me whole.
Ink became the bridge I would draw
between silence and expression.
I learnt that living through hell is but a reminder,
that there must be a heaven.
And ink became a badge of honour
for the reputation you couldn't stain.
This pot of ink was not my downfall,
it was simply my awakening.