Ink For My Pain Poem by Luke Easter

I will serve my pen to nourish my flesh,
Soul extracts honey from the alphabet,
I come alive and true whenever I write,
No mirror, no camera, no one’s in sight.

I know no shame, wait for no apologies,
I skip commas, periods & apostrophes,
For sure I will ignore exclamation marks,
Love within has no rules or place to start.

Birthed across the ocean were my word recipes,
From soulful master chefs learning your ABC’s,
Poetry is truly personal my English has taught,
God blessed 2nd language expressing thoughts.

So easily I will tire from leftovers of the past,
Maybe it’s the reason those colors never last,
Like the fly of a fisherman far away I do cast,
Or is it they who run from me yesterdays trash.

Certainly not from my one sided point of view,
Not possible I could be the reason it is through,
Hey heaven, send clouds to light the vestibule,
Darkness reins supreme surely because of you.

I’m too sensitive while my heart indeed is pure,
Foolish to imagine your love could be the cure,
Alone on a cruise, raise anchor, ship sails away,
Secure in my cabin is the only safe place to stay.

Span the globe daily meals delivered to my door,
Hearing laughter from the portal docked on shore,
Unwelcome happiness infiltrates the quiet solitude,
Plausible that maybe I have failed to pay my dues?

OK, every now and then, certainly not all the time,
I know plenty less caring, how do they always find?
Should I be less affectionate hiding tenderness inside?
Ha! Forever catching the bouquet but never the bride.

Truly as the ink pours gracefully from the writer’s pen,
Likewise I shall reference gratitude maybe never again,
Yet, only time has the knowledge to say will or will not,
Amid every encounter I’m destined to give it all I’ve got.

Only when I am hidden from view and unable to speak,
My heart unsuccessfully plays a game of hide and seek,
I don’t know from where or whence it eventually came,
So, neither does it matter for no longer is that my name.

Independent of ourselves we try but are unable to write,
Emu & Luke distantly provide unmerited second sight,
By miles or days the reason doesn’t really matter much,
The only relevant factor is a compelling semantic touch.

By every single disappointment, every fear, every love,
Bitterly served basting, frying, salt & pepper because,
Chopping, peeling, sautéing, it can never be the same,
Too many colors of desperation are, “Ink For My Pain.”

w/ Emu Getachew