Writer's Block, Writer's Passion

The clock ticks past midnight

Text lines my pages

Black ink runs, smearing them

But I ignore it

Blue ink stains my hands

But I ignore it

Red ink falls like drops of blood to the floor

But I ignore it

The clock’s ticking reminds me it is past one

More pages are filled with scrawling text

Green ink, now is dripping

Violet ink is smearing

But I keep writing

I ignore the mess

Pages flip and rustle

The clocks ticks on its tireless path

My pen scratches away at the page

Some brave mice skitter across the floor

Hoping I have dropped more than ink

Finally, when the clock strikes the three o’clock hour

I stop

I set my pen to the side and walk to the window with my pages

I read and I smile

My book is finished

My heart was poured out into it

My emotions show clearly in it

Maybe now people will understand me

Understand who I am

I write

Not just for the readers

But for myself too

I want people to know who I am

So I write

I turn to my desk where the ink is still splattered

But I leave it

That’s part of me too

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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