A raven feathered quill,
a bottomless pot of ink,
at blank piece of paper,
I stare as I think;

A little drop of ink,
to start of a scribble,
I tip the ink pot though,
on the paper it dribbles;

This blank piece of paper,
was my life on a page,
tainted now,
for the ink blot has raged;

The quill served no purpose,
neither did a story,
my ink blot life,
has its own little glory;

Between monster and demons,
and butterflies and bats;
My Rorschach life,
twisted just like yours.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar