Lonely Little Poem

37 7 5

Don't wait, write it now.

All day the pen plunges

into the inkpot and resurfaces

to find no hand to guide it

over the warm page.

All day the poet attends

a real job, social media scrolls,

rendezvous with a winter lover

(you'll see, they'll melt this summer)

and endless calls to whoever

'cause loneliness kills, doesn't it?

The poem nods and drifts

a little further from the pen's tip.

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