The Inkstain

Nondescript, like a story gone wrong. An ink stain on an otherwise blank page. There's no telling what that blot does or does not conceal. Or, perhaps that blot is the story itself - just spewed out on the paper, too many words at once. That's me then, my form in a nonform, a contradiction of symphonic beauty ugly for its all-at-once nature. Maybe it's better than I am a stain, though. There's a lot of ink there. If it was all written out pretty, no one would bother to read the book. Not that it matters - no one reads it anyways. So am I an inkstain - so are we all.