Ink (Or Symptomatology Of A Poet) Poem by Patrick Dennis

Today was a bad day. Today I was hungry and floodbound
sitting in solidarity on a shanty-house roof in Bangladesh.
Having a sensitive soul I couldn't bear it beyond lunchtime
and turned to ink for relief.

Tomorrow I may walk in the forest
and let my soul reach up through the trees
to where the trapped sun makes diamonds.
From previous experience, though, I know I shall flinch and withdraw;
Joy, like pain, hurts my soul so.

On reflection, I think I shall stay home tomorrow
and prescriptively bleed my soul of its ink.