Ink

There’s the ink that runs out of pen when Simply left alone to form Lovely black lakes and undiscovered islands In a silent white ocean.   Then there is the ink that needs a hand, Fingers and a forearm to make anything Out of anything. It needs to be maneuvered and driven in Drunk circles, then dragged in ragged lines Back and forth to create the feeling of filling But little white spots always remain and smile up at me Like wicked little children–the kind That begin their lives by stealing candy and cigarettes Then move on to giving themselves tattoos of snakes and curse words And driving themselves off cliffs with the top down. I could focus for centuries on coloring in molecules and Particles not even an angel could pull up on chair on–blot out Those damned kids before they can even get a lisense–but it’d be Obvious by the mean, unnatural indents That I am in desperate need of a different pen. One that I can place gently sideways and let The eager ink spread beautifully like a swarm Of happy black locusts