A thousand ellipsis on paper,
a hundred more pauses.

Irony is when you can write
brilliant stories
on how you feel,
what you'll do,
or where you'll go,

but still stutter explaining the simplest sentence.


There's blood on my hand,
from how hard I hit the paper,
splattering metaphors hoping to find
evidence that this is normal,
the fact I can't find the exact, blunt words,
in this crime scene,
of a ****** mystery I once wrote,
still stuttering,
trying to find the obvious killer.