Ink by Yuho Tanizaki

I am loaded with ink 

But it evaporates when I write

That fountain pen is not sharp enough.

To suck the night-coloured fluid running my body

That paper isn’t coarse enough.

To handle my venom killing my down

I would rather say nothing than say incomplete and be misunderstood.

For nothing could be munched

of this polyhedron that beats. throbs. bleeds.

The voices endlessly well up from  

the sky with the ceilings

which lost control of the dawn and down.

My ink

is the colour of vulnerability

but frankly

i say 

my ink is

my dark mind

in other words

the white shell

I say.