Friday, June 21, 2013

Poem #7

Meh, I'm not fond of this one at all, but I wrote and it became what it is.

I know that it's just ink
as I play my game of
writing stories -
these wicked smudges on my hands:
black, blue, and faded purple,
the dangers of using another hand
- but
I can't stop breathing hard
when I see them and know
that the stories I make up
can compare nothing to what
I know
the true horrors are.

2013 (c) Summer Fenwick

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