Spilling Ink

I don’t want to be a writer anymore,
I don't want to write anything,
Not another word
Until the ink I'm spilling
No longer leaks through my paper.
I’m done with pointless metaphors,
Done comparing our love to the
Downpour of rainstorms.
Never again explaining your smile using
Simile, I'm done describing your eyes
By comparing them to the moon, it's
Size and the beautiful way it shines.
I'm finished spilling ink, choosing
Instead to eloquently glide the
Ink from my pen,
Into pictures I'll paint from
Images stuck in my head.
I don’t want to be a writer anymore
But
If I’m not piecing together words,
What pieces am I living for?
Without ink spilled,
What use is all this blank paper?
Will I feel empty without black ink
Staining the unreachable parts of me?
Maybe I need to find out.
It's time to clean what's spilled,
Maybe it's time I wrote with
Colored pencils, maybe I should try
Pouring my heart out in crayon—
My thoughts could probably use
A splash of color in them.