The Pages

I took out a pen and paper
With intentions of screaming on mute
Through the vacant scribbles on a page
But I found that I had no words to write
I couldn’t make the ink come alive
When I had nothing on tap to draw from
A dead pump won’t produce water
No matter how often that it’s primed
And when I looked down,
the page was no longer empty.
My instrument of mass creation
Had bled a river of blue
Leaving no room for wasted letters



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