I always write in black ink. There is something about writing in any other color that seems to make it look less sincere to me. Occasionally I will have to write something down and can only find a blue pen, but I will often go back and re-write it later in black ink if it is something I need to keep or look at with much frequency.
I've been writing in my sketchbook a lot. I keep it on the stand next to my bed and write poems or craziness in it when I can't sleep. All this rambling is just leading up to a poem I wrote a few weeks ago. The pen I usually use had vanished and I grabbed another one. I jotted a few words and realized that it was blue ink, but it kinda worked so I went with it. This poem is the only thing written in my sketchbook that is not in black ink.
Bare windows let
Daybreak's light seep in
to illuminate dull objects.
The side table items were
all witness to midnight promises and pleas
for sleep to come.
But now I'm writing in blue ink
and the light is melting any recall
of how I should
be new today.
I sense recurrence
when the sun