A NIGHT ALONE

 

 

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

 

 

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