Writer
Writer
This pen feels lifeless in my hand tonight
black blood just refuses to flow
I cannot form the words just right
soiling this page of virgin snow
Scattered about are some older works
phrases and words I scarcely know
ideas that twist like bejeweled dirks
but tonight this flesh proves fallow
One single word, the image forms
pulsing pen scribes to and fro
free will refuses to conform
my hand now can only follow
Sdallen
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