Ink Drops

A drop of ink on my daily life,
Ripples through the storms,
Turns clouds into starry nights,
And when the sun resurrects,
It creates a flock of birdsongs,
As if oases in nearby deserts
Can recreate a treasure map,
But I insisted on believing in it,
Storytellers of ink-filled papers,
To keep writing, I drop the ink.

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Won’t Write Anymore

The tip of my pencil used to break
And I would sharpen it,
The ink of my pen used to dry out
And I would replace it,
The lined sheet of paper used to fill out
And I would grab some more,
But not today,
Not anymore,
Today –
The pencil is sharp,
The ink is not dry,
The lined paper is blank,
But –
Never will I scribble –
A letter,
Or a word,
Or even a sentence,
Or a mind’s paragraph,
Or a heart’s essay,
No,
Never,
The pencil is still sharp,
The ink is still not dry,
The lined paper is still blank.