Ink blotches, coffee stains
cramped fingers, chronic strain.
I can't control the need,
to constantly feed,
my hollowed soul.
With pretty words and stories,
rehashing former glories.
I can't- can't stop myself.
For I'm trapped in a prison of my own design: a prison of pens and paper.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
Ink blotches, coffee stains
cramped fingers, chronic strain.
I can't control the need,
to constantly feed,
my hollowed soul.
With pretty words and stories,
rehashing former glories.
I can't- can't stop myself.
For I'm trapped in a prison of my own design: a prison of pens and paper.