Dead Ink



My words mean nothing

When they lie on the paper

With my eyes for only reader.

They taste good but they are dead.

Unspoken melodies,

Silent mysteries,

I see them, savour them,

But they mean nothing.

Only syrupy corpses

When kept to myself;


My words are nothing;

All dressed in black.

My notebook is a coffin.

Lifeless, soulless ink,

Empty, lacking

Something they find

Only when they meet your eyes,

Your ears; your mind.

Without you I’m nothing,

I mean nothing,

So make me something.

Read me, hear me, see me…

These words are full of me;

If they are dead then it’s a “we”.

Kill the silence, fill the gap.

The rhythm in my heart, bring it back.

You have the keys,

Don’t close the door.

You breathe life into them,

You breathe life into me,

As you collide

With my pen’s dried blood.

Until I speak,

Until I sing,

Until you meet,

My words are just dead ink

Resting on dead trees.

Pieces of me to be shared with you.

Truth is I exist because of you.

Had the title for this one written in my sketchbook three weeks ago.

I was having a nice chat with a girl I know on Facebook when she told me she was considering sharing her writings on the internet but was a bit reluctant to do so. Β I, of course, explained to her that she shouldn’t be afraid because she could receive constructive criticism and just simple feedback which was a very good and helpful thing. But my main argument was what lead me to this title and to this poem.

I strongly believe that art doesn’t become art until it’s shared with another soul. Your words don’t mean much when they’re on paper but as soon as they meet someone else’s eyes, they come alive. A poem that you don’t share is just like a page from a personal diary. Β Until you put yourself out there, you don’t stand out; until you share pieces of you, they don’t really breathe. They’re just like secrets, like really beautiful jewels that you keep preciously in a wooden box so that no one steals them, so that it doesn’t get a single scratch or break… But these jewels could look even more beautiful under the sun, and shine freely.

I believe that art has to be shared to be art. Even if it’s just your mom or your sister, or just your friends, it’s still someone else. The magic happens when what you’ve created from pieces of you meet someone else, and creates reactions in them, feelings and so many things. It’s a lot about sharing, that’s what I’m saying. When you share, the magic happens and art happens.

I believe that art is not only self-expression but the transmission from one soul to another of a message whether it be “I’m angry my girlfriend lied to me” or “I love eating raw radishes” or just a random story about you going to the laundromat and writing a poem. (Yes, those are all examples I have experienced! Haha) Art is about saying something, giving something, and to give, you need someone to receive…

So yeah, it had been sleeping for a while in my sketchbook. And today as I went to the laundromat with my friend Leslie, I managed to write and finally get down my point of view on art. I’m really happy about it because it’s heartfelt and I’ve been waiting for a little while to get it out! So I hope you enjoy it!


2 thoughts on “Dead Ink

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