Poetry

Ink

The bullets to my weapon are but just a dark liquid.
When I yield it, I have all the power in the world.
Yet a few choices.
My weapon does not kill,
Just shakes the conscience.
I may speak my heart,
But may risk its safety.
The flow of thoughts could soothe a lonely soul;
Its currents could inspire revolutions.
These ink stains on paper,
Create a world where expression is strength
And emotions a driving force.
Remolding itself with the ravages of time
And the wisdom of experiences.
Coloring the book of my thoughts,
Till it fades into oblivion.