Ink

fountain pen beside the glass

Photo by Joanna Kosinska

The pen demands conflict,
from which it can write itself out,
if momentarily.

It demands empty calendars
and broken windows
out of which I can peer out,
the light hurting my eyes.

When plunged into brightness
And hope,
It turns, first confused,
then skeptical,
then angry,
before slowly beginning to smile.

I look relieved,
Believing that perhaps at last
There will be some resolution
between ordinary happiness
and anguished writing.

“Only a matter of time”,
It says quietly,
“An addict returns for her kicks”,
“And so shall you”.

Darkness has been my ink, I concede,
Torment is what made me poet.

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