Red ink

I’m not a painter
But a poet,
An endless flow
Of untouchable ink,
Imprinting words
Into your mind,
Trickling around
As you think.
A vibrant flow
Of colour & patterns,
Leaving interpretation
In every verse,
Injecting my words
Into your blood
This creativity
Is an intoxicating curse.
Filled with emotion,
Pain & tears
Each stroke of the pen
Is my aching heart,
With each page
Suffering & bleeding
For all this poetry
To be called art.

K