Where has this feeling come from?
Gnawing at my skull and buzzing softly.
The ebb and flow of constant wonder,
drives the quill to ink again.
Every story and rhyming thought
illicit deep cuts upon my quill,
and upon my mind. But then I wonder,
at what I am chipping away.
Wonder then, at other worthy notions;
that warrant deep regressions.
Is every dance the writer dances,
worth spilled drops of life-ink?
Inky ichor flows unending, pour it out
and consider what you lose to every page.
Take every living spark inside your mind,
and scar the paper deep.
How many stories, and poems, and tears,
is each dance, and heart, and wonder worth?
For my inkwell is never far from empty,
and my quill is oh so fragile.
I’ll never change it, we’re all aware.
Nothing can staunch the inky flow.
Keep those notches on your bedpost,
I’ll keep the notches in my quill.