Blood and Ink

I whip out my pen and scribble on these pages,

Its inky black inscriptions struggling to match the darkness that has resided in me for ages,

Darkness that has engulfed me progressively in measured stages,

Darkness borne out of pain; my blood laboriously borne on these pages,

I write with a continuing obsession for rhyme,

An addiction I promised to lose, to temper down this time,

But here I am again like a freed robber drawn right back to crime,

My rhymes telling wordless stories, intriguing scenes in pantomime,

Still I scribble, I notice my ink is starting to fade,

Can I finish putting down my thoughts before it does fade?,

Can I finish telling how I'm trying not to drown as I wade?,

Through these turbulent waves I'm trying to evade,

Still scribbling, I notice on these pages a recurring stain,

It's the reddish trail of blood with a fading ink train?,

All this while I'd been sitting in the softly falling rain,

Its waters making sure my bloody efforts were in vain