It’s a night alone. It’s not unusual. That’s probably why I got into writing in the first place. It gave me something to do that would delude me into thinking I was accomplishing something meaningful. I am here alone but the pen is pushing along the page and scratching out words. That’s really always been my position. I don’t always want to admit it to myself but it is. So here I sit with a pen spouting ink on a page. . .flowing freely. . .so here I sit alone. . .
Onward it goes
destitute, lonely poet
recklessly writing
blue ink, black ink all the same
words piling up on a page