We spill ink
Like we spill milk
Onto the ground
But we say that it is not our fault
Because the spill was already there
But why does it say words, and touch my heart.
Ok so maybe I spilled it on purpose.
To make a gourmet treat for all of us to enjoy
But on the ground though?!
This ground brings us closer together
So we can kneel and admire what I wrote
Why use paper
When you can use Earth’s platform?
But who is going to pick it up?
Who said anything about picking it up
It will stay there
Because ink like this on the floor
Is meant to be admired, not cleaned.