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With my ink, I’ve built worlds
and characters, told tales
of the macabre, the fantastical,
but where my ink falls short
is describing the world in
which I exist with you;
when I’m in your arms,
and you in mine,
my ink struggles to siphon
the words from my head,
and from the veins where
happines resides coursing
through my body.

With my ink, I’ve built
fictional monuments to the
muses in my imagination,
but when it comes to describing
the way your lips touch mine,
the way your hand holds mine;
how you look up at me,
how your smile encases me aglow;
or your relaxing whispers,
or your hot breath on my neck,
my ink falls short and
the word monuments seem inadequate,
the muse too inarticulate.

With my ink, I’ve built
controversey and relationships
with and to my readers,
I’ve pushed boundaries and tried
to forge bridges, but when it comes
to explaining my relationship to you,
the way you disarm me and make
me want to be vulenerable because
I’m safe with you, my ink falls short.
My ink could traverse a trillion neurons,
or the chambers of my heart, the intricacies
of my veins, but it will never conjure the right
words to describe what you do to me.

writer's block

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