My mother always told me "child, don't you cry over spilled milk",

but no one ever said anything about spilled ink,

and the funny thing about ink is that it comes in many different colors,

one color for each emotion,

and when I write,

emotions explode inside me and when I cannot take it anymore, 

I go wild and knock over my bottle and spill the ink.

And it is not just one single drop of ink that is spilled,

Oh no - the whole bottle is knocked over and the whole page is drenched in my passions,

in my rage, in my sorrow, in my happiness, and in shame,

and even some escape and dribble onto the carpet,

leaving a hideous stain,

and after that, my breathing relaxes and I am free,

I am free from every kiss I have ever regretted,

I am free from every "I hate you" I have ever uttered,

And from every "I love you" that should have been spoken but now the loved ones gone,

and the possibility for recieving my affection has been forgotten,

I am free because the pain I feel is translated onto a lifeless object,

and I can rest easy knowing that a paper will understand me but never have to feel the pain I feel,

Because bottled in emotions are not worth hiding,

They will tear you in two,

They are not your friends,

but with paper,

no matter how much ink is spilled, 

it will always suck it up and dry,

Writing is my release so I do not explode from the inside.

I do not care who hears me.

As long as paper hears my cries with its non judgemental ear,

I will be fine - just fine. 

After all, it is just spilled ink.