I washed my bedding today and it is stained,
strange patterns, Rorschach blots,
Ink, the ink of my poetry,
the many pens used in the creation of my poems,
left open at night as I drift into sleep and dream of them.
They reflect the themes of my life,
the complexity of me,
what ties my poetry together,
other times strong as a knot.
Though the stains faded,
they are still noticeable,
a reminder to continue to write
as long as I have meaningful words to share.
|courtesy of Polyvore|