Feb 2013
I write about the world.
The world does not write about me.
The world does not write at all.
*The world spills ink.
We form it into letters
The world does not write about me.
The world does not write at all.
*The world spills ink.
We form it into letters
My pen broke apart while writing the third line of this poem, putting ******* puddles on the page. After my sister saw, she wrote the fourth line down, and I put down the fifth. I think it all played out perfectly, but I do miss the pen.
