My ink is red
Though I write with silver
And there's no ink on my pen
It bubbles up from my paper.

My writing is so painfully sweet
Addictive and harmful
There's nothing quite like it
Not even ice melting

Lines and lines of beautiful red ink
Leaves me hanging onto the brink
Of writing versus talking

But my readers are so hungry for more
So more is what they shall receive

And it's something I hate quite a bit
Something I've grown to despise

Though I can't talk about my lovely silver pen that writes with red in
Because I'm not quite sure anyone would understand

Yes, I may be happy to give to my readers
Yes, it may be one of my flaws
But the lovely red lines are just so addicting
And this far in, I'm not sure if I could stop