The Poet
The blank paper blatantly lies on my desk,
Querulously staring at me,
Seemingly not getting far enough fast enough,
Distinctly posing as a scratch and sniff.
My itchy pen lying beside the paper,
Full of words and raring to go,
The meniscus not showing even an ounce of movement,
I can hear the hidden voices in the ink.
Copyright © Samuel Otieng | Year Posted 2017
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