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Mar 2016
Drip, Drip, Drip goes the ink from my quill. Splotching the paper as I sit frustrated with myself. Scribble and scratch as the writers block stifles me. I push to find the words but they will not come. I squeeze the pen in frustration only to stain my face with the blood of my trade. I then come to understand how easily the ink can flow and that for their work a poet must sometimes bleed.
James M Vines
Written by
James M Vines  50/M/Atlanta Georgia
(50/M/Atlanta Georgia)   
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