Drawing of a pot of ink with a real feather on it, and spills of coffee on a notebook.

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Spills of coffee, because I didn’t have ink😅

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Spilled ink

Spilled Ink
Flower buds spilled from ink
And from my heart grows out 
Flowers, words, beautiful things.
While beauty blooms from the day
I spilled ink on my white sheet
Materialised, the face of a tiny Faye.
These words morph on their own
It’s spilling, and dripping, flowing
And a new world of colour is born.
These inks drip, and they all seem
To make their way till a new road 
Gravelled with new winged dreams.

Poetry is such a fascinating art to me; I love to read the veiled mysteries that are hidden in our subconscious. I also wrote poems in my teen days, well, if we can call these poems😅. Poetry, visual art, music, ambient movies, and catchy written books have always satisfied my thirstiness of subtle evasion, thus, it’s normal that these words and lines I like reading so much now spill from my heart and mind.

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