INKED BLOODSHED

Just a little something I wrote one day. It's short but tells a story regardless.

INKED BLOODSHED

Victim of a paper cut massacre,
My written word is decaying,
Verses slowly going under,
Prose torn asunder.

I’m of no use.
Helpless I watch the carnage.

My words too weak to save themselves,
Letters unable to stretch
and grab onto the edge of the page,
A story that will never come of age.

Reviews

[Denise Rivard]

I think I understand your point. I have felt the frustration of losing my thoughts and words before managing to say what needed to be stated. I like the clarity of this poem. I think it aptly describes writers block.

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

the lyrical death you paint rebirths itself through its electric dive into disassembling itself~ exquisite mind candy~