the ink pen

i remember dipping a pen
into an inkwell. i liked
the color of that blue,
almost black, but most
certainly a blue, like
the deepest part of
the atlantic ocean, or
the sky when there is no
moon. i liked the scratch
of that pointed pen, full
and heavy with fresh ink,
on real paper, paper with
weight, paper that could
take the pressing fist
of a small child as he
tried his hand at cursive.
making the new found loops
and breaks, trying
to find the right words,
as the pen leaked
and stained his palm, his
fingers, with ink that
would be his blood,
and never wash out.