Ink

A poem about a girl, poetry, stories, a notebook and a boy. A spoken word poem.

When you look at her hands you won't see neither expensive manicure or dirt

But you will see medium size nails that grow without a care and ink

It may be black as the night, blue as the ocean, or red, as well, a brick

But let me tell you something very important, listen carefully

You will never see what she writes, not even if she truly wants

You will see colors, dooddles, maybe an eye but never the story behind

A story about a girl and a boy who drived her mad and that made her angry

A story about a girl and a boy who, to her myopic eyes was pretty and at some point handy

Handy for a good novel that would help with the ink, and the story and the poetry

Handy to create an expensive collar, or zaphire rings, handy to create imaginary jewelry

Handy as a distraction when she's working on her project of geometry

Handy in breaking her heart and she wouldn't and couldn't care because he did it heroically

Handy to make her weak

Weak, so weak that looking at him was going to put her life at steak

And when the trials arrive the one wordsmith will misspeak

Weak, that the problem will not be her eyes, she will she bleak even in her dreams

And there might be a possible plot twist, well a miracle, at least, that's what it seems

But he will also make her love sports

Well, kinda, kinda soccer and kinda football

He will make her scream loud and he will make her stand tall

And she will try to be the best in everything, there's no losig at all

And that is how being in love looks in her

But how does love looks in ink? How does he looks?

In her tablle, bed or backpack he looks like an orange with black doodles notebook

When the notebook is open, he is squared pages covered in blue ink, her writing as his teeth is crooked

Inside the story, he is a kind, brave boy without the looks

He is the path most wish they had took

And now you wonder how she looks in her own ink? How does she makes herself?

She looks like quotes, written in black sharpie. All from songs

She looks like equalism in bold letters, she doesn't think it is wrong

Inside the notebook she is a pencil made eye

She's a long thought story, a small girl, a grown up who is shy

She's words, she's phrases, she's a very long sentence

She doesn't show herself and there are no fences

And how are they in ink? How does she makes them? 

They are a whole galaxy

They are ink, and ink is life, and ink is sea

Ink is blood, and inks runs through my veins, there's life insdie of me

I'm ink, ink is me

We are this, we are ink

This poem is what we are supposed to be

Author's Note

I'm not an expert of grammar. I'm just KET level in English (I'm Mexican).
Keep in mind this poem was made to be spoken, since it is spoken word.