Ink and Feather

My ink and feather will not write

Because my soul's gone numb.

They ignore my simple plight

As though my mouth's gone dumb.

But to pen I should, perhaps,

Just open up a vein

To bleed out my vocal thoughts

And purge my soul of pain.

My ink is black; my heart is white.

My mind, it seems, is dry,

Unlike my eyes which often fill

With moisture when I cry.

If tears could write my tale of pain,

An epic it would be -

Filled with songs of loss and gain,

And blood-red poetry.