Words spreading across the page,
limitless in their power, yet completely
reliant on achieving one goal.
In failing, they seep into the paper
lost as more words steal the limelight,
shattered aspirations crack as they are trampled.

Dedication. Followed by forlorn drooping characters.
Did you ever know delighted letters could feel so mournful?
Who knew painting wilted whispers could dash the world
into so many pieces, darken the mind's playground?

Defenseless phrases left to rot in the molded closet
covered in dust. Blackness creeping over the ink.
Overpowered by the still air.

Being a writer is a curse.
Being a poet is a death sentence.
There is never enough words to fill the fountain,
even if the stack reaches the mold.