Gone Writer
oatmeal walls
cycle shadows
as a pencil trudges
over glue-white width.
a shell-shocked pilgrim,
no clear mecca,
dirt on the hands
of Lady Macbeth.
scrub scrub scrub,
write to cover it up.
a greasy lamp moon,
whimpers of reality
under the covers,
wanting no stare.
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Everything I predicted on this blog is coming to pass.
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