Luxuriating in the mire of sadness, and delusion.
Their pens trudge along wearing the mask of defeat.
This dance of ink stains begins and ends the same.
It always has and always will.
The scribbling is a straight line, full of unfilled this and that.
A cat’s meow is more soothing.
The great chasm exposed no new ideas or inspiration.
Mother is nowhere to be found.
Tears and whispers are the default subject.
I’m more interested in beautiful thinking and their unwritten poems.
The Poems They Write by Frankie Laufer
