Bad Writing
I press keys in a language I’ve borrowed.
I did not create its letters nor learn
them on my own - or birth the ink
that stains this page.
I did not mill the paper I blot,
only coarsely abuse it; waste it.
Even the silence between my
sentences is mere blanks in thought.
My metaphors hang limp,
too tired to skew meaning.
Nothing I write lives longer
than the screen’s glow.
I did not seek this craving to write…
it’s just there, with a voice
swimming in a sea of better ones
- and I’m drowning.
Hmm.
Copyright © Mark Massey | Year Posted 2025
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