"
i once read
about how the fresh ink glistens
as it spills on new
parchment.
i have never seen fresh ink on parchment
but the closest to which i've seem
is the steady dripping
of liquid on thin paper
from the fountain pen
i had so proudly owned.
it was true. it does
glisten
and it was dark
and it was fragile
and the lightest most feathery
brush of fingers
messed it up.
ruined it.
and sometimes,
i would blow to make it dry faster;
as though to grow up.
but no matter how hard i blew,
it would never grow strong.
and that was when i saw
the resemblance between me and
the steady drip
of ink on paper.
"
-- THE FRESH INK ON PARCHMENT IS NOTHING LIKE MY FOUNTAIN PEN
[ tas wrote this because she hate seeing people turned cold and bitter because they've been forced to grow up way too quickly. and because she hates how much of a reoccurence it's become to see someone like that. ]
YOU ARE READING
qasa'id
Poetrya collection of anthologies written in times of grief, boredom or need for attention. © ray ling [jupitired] all rights reserved
