Been days that I put my pen to work-
Unused, the ink yearns a touch and a scribble
On a sheet as pure as white yet dark.
Thoughts overflowing as a river flooded
I grip it's rubber and fiddle it slow,
Mulling on where to start from and with.
A bolt in the thoughts and a phrase set
I gently roughed that on the refined bark
Worth the glee of a child and an artist!
Scribbled, struck, scratched, wrote...
Too many strikes for it to bear
Must it stay or go for a tear?
The sheet said none and none did I-
Just let the flow and kept an eye
On the emotions and the sheet so scarred
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