Thoughts of a Single Man

The Ink Is Her - Poem by Thoughts of a Single Man

Each word she writes is a portion of the palette which is her creative delight. Painted on the canvas of her soul and is left as a gift to the eyes that captures the fragments of all that she is. Her insight, her fear, her courage, her desires, and her never ending fire. Revealed in just a glimpse of what lies within her and what is graciously displayed in the many shades of the ink that is her.

The ink is her voice, and is what she uses to express what is held within her. Words that have been kept silent now left free to dance on the waking page. This is where her emotions unravel like the strands of the yarn that is the coiled ball of her innermost thoughts. The grace she possess, the strength in her, the fact that she will not be denied. The playing field open to her in equal access for she is the power of a generation, not a gender simply mentioned, but to be remembered in our nation. At times sweet and tender, yet still howling at the moon in a tune not to be crooned, but sung loudly and proud. The statement that she walks side by side with the pens of man. The fires the burns in her soft belly, the ferocious passion in the bite of her words, left with the smoking imprint that she is to be heard. Now and forever, witty and clever, in all her written endeavors, for she will not be overlooked and is so mush more than just another pretty face within this book.

The ink is her pain, for it is the release of the drops upon the empty page of what swirls within her. The tears that fell in the silent nights now left in the form of the falling ink as she writes. Perhaps the tortured path that led her to the pen, the lose of family and friends, or is it the fact that she never wants to cry again. All there in the mixing bowl of controlled scripture, the weathered elixir, that paints the breathing picture that describes what turmoil lays inside of her that cannot simply be swept aside by the male hand. The names written in the shifting sands of her journey thus far, and the roads yet to be traveled, as inner desire is fortified with each dropp of ink that falls. It wets her like filtered drops of rain that leak from her somber eyes that stream like the festive cascade of emotions that moisten her grey skin as she is lost withing the birthing bubble of another dreary day.

The in ink her shame, for there have been times when she was not proud of her actions. That she was in the position where she wore the brand of the weaker sex. The bruises and scars left upon her by those who thought they had power over her that still leave their murky wounds unseen by the naked eye. The verses dispersed that act as a rescue rope, the extended hand to those who do not have hope, and who cannot gain the means of the exit to their cage. The ones with feminine hands and slender fingers that clench the unmoving bars that exist as victims of abusive words and physical rage. Yet she shares her plight with the reading world in the words she writes and thus is able to free those who find themselves represented in the words of her prose as she becomes a deterrent and defiantly leads the way to inherent freedom. She moves along, still bearing the tattoos of her misfortune etched in her skin, but as she heals herself her pen becomes her brush and her scars become an expression of blossoming intent. The petals hide her wounds and mask the forgotten regrets that dance silently in the echoes of her endless gaze.

The ink in her seduction, as she leaves the sensual phrases leaked hot upon the waiting scroll. The words that make the blood of man boil in the darkness. The endless description of her desired feminine form left in the crafty and delicious notes that leave the loins twitching and warm. Her body outlined in the margins of her collective writes, so sinfully it invokes not just the listening, but a a physical stiffening, as it leaves readers wanting her late into the night. Haunted by the passion they could never claim, fires that can never be contained, untamed flames that remain as sparks in the imagination of those who not only read her her but proclaim how much they need her, She dangles drops of wet dreams before them as another attempts to grab for the prize she holds. The one that is always just beyond their lusting reach. So many lessons she can teach to those who could never navigate the ways of her passionate speech. Each word read and each word heard sparkles in the multiple textures and tones that induce the multiple fixtures and moans of her collective admires reflected in the shimmering glimmers of her face and beckons them yet again with the whimsical flutter of her lengthy lash.

The ink is her peace, for at the end of the day sometimes there is no way for any other release. No time left to speak of the what has transpired in those twenty four hours, no one to listen to the excerpts of the hard days work, nothing to keep her from going berserk, and no water to be found to drown her merging mental weeds. Perhaps the intent is just to vent, or to release when has been pent up inside her until all her energy is spent, as she leaves pieces of her dynamic in portions on the loving page and thus she is saved. Healed internally, mentally, and spiritually, as the pen dances sweet before her. Capturing just a sliver of the story that is her thought. Part reap, part heat, part gnawing wonder, and part slumbering weep, as she closes her eyes upon its completion and exhales once more. Purged and pure and retires for the night as her soul takes flight in the winds of her sanctioned imagination.

So many facets, so many sides, so many ranges., the spectrum expands from her anger, joy, and her pride. All left on the page in such an exceptional display and I read every word she has to say for I am grateful for her in what she brings to the table and that she is able to do what she does. She does what no other can and certainly no man can touch her for they could not begin to move as she does, groove as she does, and prove as she does. She is the vast expression of her essence and the infinite questions and answers in all that she thinks, for she is the ink and….

The Ink is Her

Thoughts of a Single man 2012 tm

Comments about The Ink Is Her by Thoughts of a Single Man

  • Jerome Moore (8/26/2012 9:49:00 PM)

    started out fantastic I love it! 50 words too long (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, August 26, 2012

Poem Edited: Monday, August 27, 2012

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