Ink

I’ve been drinking the ink, chewing the paper,

reams of dreams I’ve been saving for later.

The pens are dry and their nibs are bent,

the last word I wrote was not what I meant.

My skin is parchment, tattooed by Quink,

Platignum and Parker and Mont Blanc, I think.

What wouldn't I give for an idea or two?

There, I’ve written this down: It’ll have to do.