Wasted Ink.

Rhymes fall cold upon the floor…

blind they run

beyond my saddened

pen to pause,

lost upon the page

that shuns their touch.

Those words, new born

unused redundant ink

has cast away.

 

 

© sweetwater 2022
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critique and comments welcome.
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pronto

Great effort, I feel for you, I have written plenty of short stories lately, but the poetry will just not come or if it does it’s stilted and unusable.

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