Leaking Pen

A fountain pen of old—

cracked and tarnished,

leaks slow drops of ink,

bleeding rivers through quivering hands,

leaving a map of stains,

an atlas of memories.

Each drop falls—

not wasted, but whispered,

as if it knows its weight,

a carried burden

moments from the days

that fight to be remembered.

The ink pools, spreading wide like the night,

each curve holding fragments:

a laughter that vanished before it was caught,

the scent of rain on forgotten streets,

a hand, once warm, now a ghost

continues to flow, unrestrained.

The pen won’t stop.

It leaks, it stains,

it smothers the paper with its ache.

You try to blot it, to hide it,

but the ink seeps deeper,

pulling you back, forcing you to see.

Some memories are loud,

like thunder roaring through your veins.

Others whisper like dust settling on a windowsill.

But all of them drip, unyielding,

marking you, marking the world

in a language no one else can read.

And when the pen finally empties,

when the last drop falls

on a page going silent,

you realize it was never the pen

that was leaking—

it was you.