In the darker corners

In the unswept crevices of the internet resides this thought.
Sitting in class, on a monday eve. Its halloween and nobody’s quite right. Everyone’s gun is loaded like a highschool shooting. The words, just waiting to be triggered: “what did you come as.”
I came as a dead pen…
I came as my own terrible fear, my attribution to what matters in life and my acknowledgement that nothing is permanent and tattoos are worthless, silly, wasted attempts that speak volumes for and against yourself.
I’m saying that we’re afraid of getting inked.
We’re afraid of being dirty.
A pen leak, shows the spread of germs, taints everything you touch, discolours everything, tactile rub-off disgust. You, the contamination.
I am ink, anywhere I am witnessed, people fear.
“I have destroyed this t-shirt”- i think to myself as i create my own momentary comment-come-art-piece.
Worn, functional yet banal in its stirringly accurate truth.

I got an exam back today, 68% a terrible mark for me.
Mortified, exiled, angry, swollen eyes.
My opinion, ideas, paid for, weighed, marked and scaled. Finally the shame.
The book, the review, the graffiti, the painting, the pen-leak. All fearful, all walls, difficult to avoid and an annoyance to try and comprehend. How, what, why?!

And for me, quite closely, I fear my own standard.
We have to be our harshest critic, because nobody else will. They will support or ignore. I want to be a writer.
The pen is mightier than the sword i’m told, so I didn’t join the army… Instead I write my heart out.
I splodge my internal struggles, wars errupt on the page.
I fear the pen.
I am afraid of ink.
What do i write?
Does it matter, can I put it all down before I run out?
I am afraid of ink… I think we all are, after a fashion.
In a way, its possible- students; surely.
So go on, ask me. “What have you come as”
“What are you”
“How are you dressed”
“Tell me who you are”
I am my own fear of ink.
Spilt. Written. Drawn.
The stain on my skin wil fade.
The blotches on parchment won’t last.
I’m still afraid of death.
I am a stain.
I am a dead pen.
I am my fear leaked upon a perfectly sterile white shirt.
I am society.
I am the colours of disgust.
I am ink.

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