Spill ink

Pick up the pen—see how it trembles in your grip,

Not holy relic but a silent blade at your fingertips.

Scratch a single word, let it crack the quiet sky—

Soon, pages breathe, and slowly, so do I.

Writing’s a window, sharp and unforgiving,

Reflecting the fractures we keep on reliving.

Don’t flinch at the shards—there’s gold in the rust,

The gleam of growth that rebuilds fragile trust.

This isn’t mere art; it’s a weapon of light,

Cutting through static to carve out your insight.

Each syllable chisels confusion away,

Reforming the chaos into something to say.

Yes, you will stumble; your heart may curse,

As lines dissolve and you fear the worst.

But catch that spark, let it spark again,

Witness your own change as you dive deeper in.

The final secret? There is no enchanted key,

Just show up, spill ink, and let yourself be.

Write clumsily, write boldly, let all doubts rescind—

For through these pages, my friend,

a new self you’ll find.