I decided to work with my workshop draft in greater detail, this is the result.
I Hate Ink
The smell of
its pigments,
Drops of it
running through my hands.
My bed, was
a guest room, stuck in between
A closet of
my grandfather’s music collection
and the
bathroom. Every spring we’d talk,
Call it
cutting cause words tend to relieve.
But this is
a poem about ink.
My mother
used to cut with the lisp of her
voice. “Writing is you’re past time, don’t
confuse a
hobby with your career.”
My notebook
was a water pail searching
Bottomless
holes. Grandfather muttered
“Never let
your tongue drench your words”
Another cut,
You barged
in my room, door shoving
my ink pot from
desk to bed. Ink splotched
over sheets,
like me and writing fought.
Tongue, blue
as the ink suspended on my quill,
ready to
spit. “Why the hell you wanna waste your
life cutting
when you’ve got the smarts to be somebody.”
The last day
you cut, you lacquered ink over the porch.
It’s still
there, waiting to be cut.
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