Ink 

The ink flows from my pen to stain the paper
with words that burn the eyes and numb my mind.

Is this a curse that binds my being and words 
or is it a blessing haunting my waking hours?

As the ink penetrates the surface 
the truth comes to light in all hell's black fury. 

If this is a blessing then let it be a curse 
for I do not find myself blessed.

What fashion is this ink binding both paper and my words? 
To endure I know not how or why. 

And if a curse 
then let it burn on unto the end of all my days.

For I have come to know curses do endure 
where blessings vanish with just a light breath. 

My blood is tainted forever bound within this jet-black ink. 
and the paper Bleached, lifeless is my flesh stretched unto breaking.

Copyright ©2000 Annette Rust