Thread: The Writer's Struggle

An ink quill.

They are black lines, black blots
They are spilled, liquid metal
Thick like tar, like clay.

Sticking to shoes, leaving footprints behind
like grey gum
tiny ink prints - smudges - a record of rubbed ink.

This is our mark
our silent protest
written in bold,
bold.

This is the ink in our palms
in the cracks of our rusted fingers
stuck like a tunnel
where the pen should fit.

We are the restless
the thoughtful
and we only exist inside our minds.

For the most part, I enjoyed this. I like the flow of your words and the imagery you filled me with. I especially liked this part,
"This is the ink in our palms/
in the cracks of our rusted fingers/
stuck like a tunnel/
where the pen should fit./"

I feel a small hint of rhyme here, when I read it the first word of the 2nd line rhymes with the last word of the 4th line. I really like the subtlety. There were a couple pieces I thought could be improved very easily, for example in the second stanza putting "like clay" on a line of its own. Also I feel like the repitition of the word "ink" in the last line of the 3rd stanza feels heavy. And the last thing is that the final statement interupts the flow and im left not quite knowing what you were goind for. Also, I disagree with it.