Why We Write: A Heartfelt Poem on the Beauty of Expression

 

Ink of the Infinite

I’ve been thinking lately—
how the world keeps spinning,
if it ever lands,
or if it just drifts endlessly,
tangled in the murmurs of forgotten poets,
lost between the lines we never dared to write.

I don’t know, I don’t know—
but I let my ink pour like an open wound,
spilling stories the universe left unfinished,
stories buried in the silence of empty hands.

Once, everything was fine.
We were fine.
Before time turned into a river we couldn’t swim across,
before we learned that even dreams have shadows,
before we realized that some pages
never get their ending,
just a slow, aching fade.

But still, we write.

We carve our names onto the edges of eternity,
as if the ink could make us immortal,
as if words could turn back the clocks
and unbreak what was shattered
before we knew how to hold it.

We write because silence feels heavier
than the weight of an unfinished sentence.
Because sometimes,
the only way to speak
is through ink that bleeds
but never dies.

And yet,
who are we, if not restless echoes?
Who are we, if not stories wrapped in flesh,
burning to be read before the night swallows us whole?

We are the scribes of the forgotten,
the dreamers of the unseen.
Our words dance in the space between stars,
our thoughts unravel in the hush of midnight,
where ink turns to constellations
and paper feels like the fabric of fate itself.

We run—oh, we run—
along the ridges of destiny,
where every period is a pause, never an end,
where every comma is a breath,
pulling us closer to something unnamed
but deeply felt.

We write in the language of the wind,
in the dialect of the rain,
in the whispers of souls who never found their voices.
We turn pain into poetry,
longing into letters,
love into lines that outlive the bodies that wrote them.

Because it’s true—
our work will pay off, one day.
One day, when our voices
turn into constellations,
when our ink seeps into the bones of the earth,
when the world finally hears
the whispers we’ve left behind.

But until then,
we let the ink flow,
letting it spill like a river
that refuses to dry,
letting it fill the empty spaces
where words once feared to tread.

All we need is patience,
patience folded into recklessness,
a paradox woven in midnight ink,
spilled over the paper of the unseen.

Na na na na na,
the hum of unwritten legacies,
Na na na na na,
the heartbeat of stories waiting to be told.

Because the ink never dries,
the story never truly ends,
and we—
we are the ones
who write the light into the dark.