Ink
Ink rests on the page, fresh and black like silk pencil.
I watch it, watch it move as I write.
Like swirls of paint bottled into a pencil.
The paper soaks in the ink like it needs it to survive.
Words float together like memories.
Memories become physical things that move on the page, swirling in pools of ink.
I breathe and the ink flows.
It's a cycle.
It's a dance, a process.
It's something new.
I love to write, and this poem, I think, really embodies how writing in pen feels as opposed to pencil.
Write on! God Bless!
---KatG
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