Black is the Color of My Soul

The secret is out - every writer has the same color deep inside them. Without it, they couldn't be a writer.

Black is the color of the night wind’s chill

          As it iced up the panes of my window sill

     As it froze up the tears on my cheeks thus spill’t

               With no hope tonight, no rest in sight

I’ve no more tears with which I can weep.

 

Black is the color of the silent voice

          With which I now speak for I have no choice

     By which I now scream in this silent void

               Deafened by silence, Trying to sigh less

I’ve no more words with which I can speak.

 

Black is the color of the midnight fights,

          As a soldier’s blade swings and fights for his life

     The darkness pushes in and swallows up the light

               Exertion soaks his clothes, exhaustion soaks his hopes

I’ve no more sweat with which I can shed.

 

Black is the color of the hidden wound,

          When the words of a friend doth run your heart through,

     When the broken heart bleeds where young love once grew

               Wounds can come back, Love can run black.

I’ve no more blood with which I’ll be bled.

 

Black is the color of the ink on a page

          When the tears, words, sweat, and blood have all been stayed,

     And my heart bleeds black and then my pen is the drain

               To rediscover the feeling, the callouses healing

I’ve many words with which can be penned.

    

From the privacy of my pen, I’ve discovered the color of the writer’s soul

          We bleed it out

                    through our pen to dry upon our paper

          We lay it out

                    and watch it dry, this precious inky labor.

     Beware when you show it to your friends nearest thee,

               Your soul rests now upon this page for all the world to see.

Reviews

[Deaths Cold Kiss]

i love this, its amazing