The ink of my words is all of me. The ink I use to write my poetry is my tears, my blood, my hurts. My pages are like my skin. the nib digs deeply as I write my history. My writings only tell my story,

or so I thought. 

Words bring people down, sentences can bring them right back up. My stories can make someone cry, my poetry can cheer someone up.

It’s a unique thing, us writers have the ability to do. We use our words to unite, or to announce simply how we feel. And It’s a wonderful thing, but should never be used to hurt.

Because a lot of us use our writing to escape the pain, to confide in our own words, because we don’t know how to explain it.

A writer’s ink is simply who we are.