find no joy in this slick black ink. 
Written words arranged in distant melody...
Expressing my woes in ways...
That develope beyond my ways of speech. 

I tried to write you a friendly poem and found...
Red ink draws from the page a drop of blood...
Hearts break and fall to pieces beneath my creating
fingers...
Tears fall and stain the pages wiping all sweet words away
in a melancholy flood. 

She asked me why my writing always sang of naught but
woes...
And wondered if I was capable of writing some joyous hymn. 
I ripped my pen apart to see if there were colors swirling
within...
But black ink does little when trying to creat rainbows. 

I see things in greys and misty blues...
I see the storm coming before the clouds turn dark
overhead...
I see beauty in the night...and words that scatter like
spiders in the shadows...
When the pen touches to the surface...I see not what they
are seeing, but what is lurking in my head. 

I see no happy thing within this written work...
No possibility of sunshine...
For one cannot hope to paint a picture with black ink...
I see the stars...I see the night...
I see the bitter images that find there way into my
dreams...

She asked me to write a poem that brought her joy...
Instead...
I wrote her a poem to explain why I could not...
And it was called Black Ink