River flow blue in Baystate

Birth?

Barely had I bought a bottle of Baystate before its…

Blue.

A hue too true to be at the end of any queue, quickly it would…

Imbue.

“Ack!” said blue-black, the rack’s quack taken aback by ink feathers on…

Paperback.

Pens postured perfect, poised for a perished purpose permanently…

Placental.


A mundane for most moment in life is writing with pens. Not so obvious in my blog, this is unfortunately my obsession. The poem is based on a passionate love-hate relationship that has dominated this aspect of my life. An unfortunate marriage to the unholy heathen that is Baystate Blue (BSB) - a Noodler's ink. It was a gift from a friend and I couldn't hate it more. It feathers, it bleeds, and worst it stains like none other. Sorry Paul

Small writing sample comparing the 2 blues, BSB is much brighter in person

 In the poem (and hopefully apparent in the image), the savage and unruly BSB is depicted as the complete opposite of the well-mannered blue-black beside it. Yet I can't muster inside of me to annul this ill-fated relationship between us. In the rare moments I do put pen to paper, the vibrancy that rushes out is unmatched. The luminescence of this ink is breathtaking, quite literally it illuminates my world. The ink doesn't just stain my fingers, but also my mind. Every time I write with BSB, I'm enraptured by this color and nothing could stop me from thinking about it.
 
So it sits. In a pen, fully filled, on my desk, staring at me. Begging me to pick it up and begin this cycle of star crossed romance all over again. Staring at BSB is my reflective water. I'd like to think it encapsulates much of writing's relationship with me. Words well-intentioned come out messily, before being carefully curated to pray for some semblance of coherent thought. Despite this pain however, the pen remains firmly anchored for a reason. Much like I itch for BBS, writing can't seem to stop forcing my hand. So for now, my notebooks all flow with rivers of Baystate.

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