Veins of Ink and Sorrow

Beneath my skin, in rivers deep,
Where blood should flow and vitals keep,
There runs instead a darker stream,
Of ink that stains my every dream.

This liquid grief, this fluid pain,
Courses through my every vein,
Painting my world in shades of blue,
Where once a rainbow palette grew.

Each heartbeat pumps this somber hue,
To every cell, both old and new,
Until my being, once so bright,
Is shadowed by internal night.

I try to bleed out on the page,
To free myself from sorrow’s cage,
But words fall short, the ink runs dry,
Leaving questions of how and why.

My fingers, stained with misery’s mark,
Trace patterns in the growing dark,
Of thoughts too heavy to express,
This all-consuming hollowness.

Friends see the stains upon my sleeve,
But cannot fathom, nor believe,
The depth of ink that flows within,
Beneath the pallor of my skin.

I long to flush out every trace,
Of this dark ink that leaves no space,
For joy to bloom or hope to grow,
In veins where only shadows flow.