I'm dipping my fingers into black ink
and dancing them across the pages.
They're turning people,
the man at the store is charcoal
and the boy in the street is
like the rainy sky between
silhouetted branches.
The more I touch them
the darker they become,
until they're bleeding through
all the stark blankness.
BINABASA MO ANG
Slip of the Tongue ~ A Collection of Poetry
Poetry"But I don't want comfort. I want poetry. I want danger. I want freedom. I want goodness. I want sin." ~Aldous Huxley
