I was born with ink for blood
Words are stoppered up inside me
All at once out they flood
To cover me and hide me
The pen nestles in my hands
And thoughts flow through it from me
Men wrestle in the land
But their planes will never bomb me
For my life is not in flesh but mind
And when you cut me ink pours forth
Inky blackness unresigned
To float aimless, to miss true north
If you do not know where true north is
Not even my words can tell you
My words which bubble up and fizz
With life to condemn or compel you
Ink! with endless possibilities
Ink! which surges, rises, flows
Ink! the sum of my abilities
Ink! which all things honest knows
Ink! to shape however I wish
Ink! with which to move the mountains
Ink! for painting spires and fish
Ink! which wells from me in fountains
I wrote this down once before:
I was born with ink for blood
Little strokes which end the war
Little strokes blossom from the bud.
