deepundergroundpoetry.com

White Paper

It is past 3 am,
this is the time
when the words I can trace on the paper,
makes sense.

But, today it seems
they are upset with me.
Everything I write is drifting away,
every word (a cocoon) turning into a butterfly.
Leaving the scent of the ink, and
flying out of the window.

No traces are left off, even a dot.
The paper is as white, as the moon that sits in the sky
the tale now remains stuck inside.
Perhaps, it only belonged to my head.
Written by Penguinphile
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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