Dead Ink

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a poem I wrote the other day at the laundromat about my view on art. Art doesn't become art until it's shared with another soul, it doesn't come to life until it meet someone else's mind. Hope you like it!

Submitted: May 03, 2016

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Submitted: May 03, 2016

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My words mean nothing

When they lie on the paper

With my eyes for only reader.

They taste good but they are dead.

Unspoken melodies,

Silent mysteries,

I see them, savour them,

But they mean nothing.

Only syrupy corpses

When kept to myself;

Necrophiliac.

My words are nothing;

All dressed in black.

My notebook is a coffin.

Lifeless, soulless ink,

Empty, lacking

Something they find

Only when they meet your eyes,

Your ears; your mind.

Without you I’m nothing,

I mean nothing,

So make me something.

Read me, hear me, see me…

These words are full of me;

If they are dead then it’s a “we”.

Kill the silence, fill the gap.

The rhythm in my heart, bring it back.

You have the keys,

Don’t close the door.

You breathe life into them,

You breathe life into me,

As you collide

With my pen’s dried blood.

Until I speak,

Until I sing,

Until you meet,

My words are just dead ink

Resting on dead trees.

Pieces of me to be shared with you.

Truth is I exist because of you.


© Copyright 2017 ChloeRivs. All rights reserved.

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