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"unsureity" poems
Scribbling in little weaving scratchy black lines, neat but still uncertain, unsure of where the ink should turn to next, leaving blotches of unsureity riddled awkwardly across my page, my hand turns a phrase of no meaning, only to strike it through with a line too curvy yet too straight to be        intentional. We are forced to write until shooting pains crawl up our hands and arms and we cry out “no more, no more” and all of a sudden they turn it to your life, they say we are useless without these marks depicting memories of frantic late night remembering.
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Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
aiseiri-bramble
School
Scribbling in little weaving scratchy black lines, neat but still uncertain, unsure of where the ink should turn to next, leaving blotches of unsureity riddled awkwardly across my page, my hand turns a phrase of no meaning, only to strike it through with a line too curvy yet too straight to be        intentional. We are forced to write until shooting pains crawl up our hands and arms and we cry out “no more, no more” and all of a sudden they turn it to your life, they say we are useless without these marks depicting memories of frantic late night remembering.
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