The rain pouring inside my fingertips

Comes out as drops and drips

Of ink that slops and slips

Across the bare, white page

A page with the corner ripped

Maybe even torn and stripped

Shoulders forlorn and chipped

No, wait, those are mine


Burdened and willow-like

Burdened black ink sike

We flow, blurring the fading wike

Between writer and write


Photo by José Ignacio Pompé on Unsplash

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