If this were more than ordinary ink upon a page
would I have given, then, more than others gave
who (not being given, themselves, to outright rages)
left no more than merely ink, or less, upon a page?
No. We are but those who strut and fret on stages,
seeking perfect words with which to voice a rant or rave
in common ink, nothing more, upon an ordinary page.
Oh, would that I have given as much as others gave.
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A re-worked triolet posted for;
Poets and Storytellers United
~ Writers’ Pantry #26 ~
“You can make anything by writing”
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Scrambled, Not Fried 
We all give what we can, I think – and so long as we do that, it is surely enough.
We write something into existence. The ink is like the innocent bystander.
Are inky rages less a gift? Something to solidify and sharpen, a dangerous nebulousness?
I wonder if comparing ourselves to others is an exercise in futility.
Ifs, that sprout out of past happenings, are always so tricky… in ink and in life, methinks.
Oh, that last line is a common lament!! An enjoyable read.
We do agonize over details don’t we? 💝 Always in search of just the right words to express all that’s churning inside 🙂
I enjoyed this I think all what is given is a gift and we can’t predict how our gift will be received
Whether we rage or we praise, we gift of inner feelings. The receivers too have a part to play in the inkiness of this construct
Much💖love
Writers and poets work hard as well. We also seek recognition, reactions, and some form of compensation. I love your piece here, great write!
I give the best ink I can and beat myself up because it reads as gray.
I ask these questions from time to time as well. I wonder too much sometimes as well.
Love how you’ve written this – but we should give and give sincerely and honestly what we can- that’s the best we can do.