sitting there
staring
at the blank
page
as if the words
were already
there
and he alone
must find
them buried
deep beneath
all of a day’s
insanity lumped into a half hour
and sipping the
remains
someone else’s
meal
all the fixings
another lonely
night
staring at the
wall
high in the
tower
out on the
porch
who cares if he
writes…
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