Jul 2021
This is forced, my notes- Blank.
My plans- Numb. I drive my Will.
It weeps words, the pen I shank.
The ink I spill,
A heightened thrill.
My plans- Numb. I drive my Will.
It weeps words, the pen I shank.
The ink I spill,
A heightened thrill.
i write short poems now simply because i can’t think any further. this one has some attempted symbolism, with the pen and book mentioned somehow being me? i don’t know, i felt like i needed to write a poem so i did. i
