Looking forward to write the right poem,
not because of my distance from the left,
for they are not that fart apart.
Is it not injustice being detained,
all my thoughts within the walls of my brain?
But the sprain in my fingers, the pen is long
held, a millimeter away from paper.
How bad is it to discover, it has no ink?
Wink, wink, wink.
No comments:
Post a Comment