the ink of me

I use to be the story I wrote,

just by the ink of me in passing.

those were innocent times, 

before the self-consciousness of penmanship.

then I became proper paged of script,

legibly aligned.

crayon skills abandoned.

now sentence structured

and punctuation refined.

where I was from current presenting, 

I am now of story to be told.

depth of being 

to carry on 

in a secret life,

beneath, behind and beyond

the presentation of what ink makes bold.

written script became the headlines

of made mention.

life became the richness 

of what was lived,

but obviously unwritten.

blood and sweat would say so much more

than ink could story.

now pen-tip to page is at best,

a confessional.

and all I ask of anyone,

is to read between the lines . . .