Ink

My bed knows stories,
A night when the windows,
Splurged cold winds onto my bare chest,
Shivers cracked my heels,
A weight heavy,
An anchor tied to a ship,
It knows my stories,
Mixed with the whiskey I spilled,
Glass broke and pierced my skin,
Still embedded in my stomach,
The marks stretched,
I sleep on it most of the times,
Belly on the bottom,
For it brings me lullabies,
Simple, just like the tick tock of my clock,
My bed knows stories,
Most of it,
Just like the ink I emboss these days…..

36 thoughts on “Ink

  1. This really speaks to how it feels to write as motivated by emotional catharsis. Sometimes, we’re far more honest with a page than we are anyone else, so only the ink knows, or the bed where we try to rest and forget about our troubles. Very nicely done 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

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