She clung to her winding words,
But they were bland.
Her winding words were her last resort,
Her last chance at something fruitful,
My winding words are mild.
She clung to the moths on the wall-
inspiration.
She clung to the sky, the sound of crickets,
The canvas in her room
-their corners, their rind.
I cling to everything.
Her winding words were unlovely-
she told herself,
Bland.
Unworthy.
Lost in other's pretty words,
A blank page.
My pretty words are lost.
W
r
i t
e
r
s
B
l
o
c
k
