Ink

In memory of the hero who was killed by his pen:

 The waves of the sea swallowed me
Just like how I was swallowed by reality
That I could never ever be you
What you did, I couldn't do.

All I have are words, more spoken than written
Miserably miserable I don't have your pen-
The same one that had planted bullets in your heart
And that scene is one hell of an art.

Yet the sea whispered things so beautiful-
Things written in their shades of cool,
That I, too, can act out of love
And write with ink out of my own blood.

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