I sit and reflect on the day each night,
add in music, pen paper and then I write.
Lots of crossed out words on the sheets,
crumpled balls laying surrounding my feet.
Unfinished thoughts missing lines of points,
painful wrist and elbow writing joints.
Then I move past the loss of dying ink,
lose my place and recapture my think,
then I write.
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Author:
Maplespal (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 2nd, 2026 08:28
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
- Users favorite of this poem: Demar Desu - 德马尔·德苏
Offline)
Comments2
Beautifully written. "loss of dying ink" is a great line!
Nicely worded that process of writing a poem or thought. Indeed it works pretty much like that on most occasions. Well done
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