She Glares
The words don’t come
The rhythm is off-tempo,
Emptiness rhyming with pointlessness,
A blank page, a blank stare, mindful aimlessness in the air.
She glares at the pages so bare that no poet can be found anywhere.
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The words don’t come
The rhythm is off-tempo,
Emptiness rhyming with pointlessness,
A blank page, a blank stare, mindful aimlessness in the air.
She glares at the pages so bare that no poet can be found anywhere.
You know, I’ve got the worst one. This is good by comparison.