Slinging Ink

I wanted to write a love story.
The ink dammed my pen,
the words would not come,
And it died. Stillborn.

I thought to write a tragedy instead,
high drama, love unrealized and early demise.
But my tale is too common,
details plagiarized from a thousand lives.

This left me to comedy,
twisting tears to laughter
and bitterness to irony.

I spilled words onto the page.
They lay flat, letters a jumble.
Barely any sense,
and nothing to amuse.

Uncontained, they overflowed.
Restraint?
I have none.
The story was born.

Proudly, it painted truth and lies
with equal fervor.
We were noble in those words.
We were horrors on those pages.

It was an epic inked in stolen letters,
living in two dimensions,
growing with each pair of eyes.
And I?

I wanted to write a love story.