With each passing moment, my longing to write falls to its knees.
Needing to find direction and depth, I reach out,
Fingers probing, searching for grip and grit,
For a way to steer fingerprints across clean pages
Smeared with the blood of lead or ink, writer's paint.
No enemy to crisp sheets of emptiness, I find solace,
When my pencil drags wreckage across spans of white,
And valleys of verse,
With lines of text ending in pools of ink.
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