Black ink

The pages, so white, and the pen, so black,

As the words, take shape, and the thoughts, they stack.

Ink, so rich, and the stories, untold,

As the tales, unfold, and the hearts, they mold.

The pen, is mightier, than the sword, they say,

And with each stroke, the truth, comes to light, in every way.

For the ink, that spills, from the tip, of the pen,

Is a reflection, of the soul, and the emotions, within.

It's a cathartic release, and a healing art,

As the pain, and the sorrow, flow, from the heart.

And with each word, written, and each line, so true,

The journey, to self-discovery, begins anew.

So let the ink, spill freely, and the stories, they pour,

For they are the whispers, of the heart, and the soul, it implores.

And in the end, when the pages, are filled, and the book, is complete,

It'll be a masterpiece, of life, and the memories, so sweet.