Ink

I pressed the various keys of my typewriter as the tears slid down my gills
the words lithographed in a slapdash on the yellow papyrus
my tears slumped down on the davenport making a small puddle
but my fingers did not cease dancing wildly on the various keys.
It's a funny world. You are taught to believe in things you cannot see
and you completely dedicate yourself to it,
promising to destroy all who step forward to pull you away from it (only with the intention of protecting you)
you never question it's inexistence
until you find yourself in a forlorn manor
closing doors like the chapters of a book only to get rid of the bedlam of the past.
I paused and stared at the ink which skillfully blended with the wafer-thin pulp
and formed words (words that oozed out of my heart)
for a moment I wondered in boredom
"If ink can metamorphose into such beautiful letters
why can't I mold myself into something equally beautiful?"
I lifted the paper and folded it into a plane
because they say "let your thoughts fly without fear"
and I am not devastated by any of the harm caused by you
because like ink, I will live endlessly
and like ink, I will be beautiful.