Blue, black ink dots and lines my
palms, my fingers,
evidence of a diligent distraction.
Words swirl and poke, page upon page
until there is room for nothing more.
Tomorrow, the spots will be gone
and new ink will meander
lazily unto my skin.
New words, sometimes just repetitions
of former ones,
find their way on the blank pages,
an example of their dogged loyalty.
They twist and twirl, structuring themselves
into phrases, rhymes,
flowing and flying from the end of
my pen.
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