Ink

The bullets to my weapon are but just a dark liquid.

When I yield it, I have all the power of world.

Yet a few choices.

My weapon does not kill,

Just shakes the conscience.

I may speak my heart,

But may risk its safety.

The flow of thoughts could soothe a lonely soul;

Its currents could inspire revolutions.

These ink stains on paper,

Create a world where expression is strength

And emotions a driving force.

Remolding itself with the ravages of time

And the wisdom of experiences.

Coloring the book of my thoughts,

Till it fades into oblivion.

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