Ten thousand blank lines yet to be written
Four hundred yellow colored signs with the word “hope” on them never to be sold.
Five million letters stamped out on pages and pages of novels, ready to be smelled and caressed
Ten pieces of clear scotch tape, ready to pin a “Keep Out, Writer Working” on the door.
Hundreds of ballpoint pens in bins for sale, ninety five cents,
Smudges of ink on the side of my thumb from racing across the page,
Words spewed from mouths for reluctant penners trying to get it out without stumbling to the ground.
One me,
One you,
Millions of writers with their fingers twitching, waiting for the moment.
Four hundred yellow colored signs with the word “hope” on them never to be sold.
Five million letters stamped out on pages and pages of novels, ready to be smelled and caressed
Ten pieces of clear scotch tape, ready to pin a “Keep Out, Writer Working” on the door.
Hundreds of ballpoint pens in bins for sale, ninety five cents,
Smudges of ink on the side of my thumb from racing across the page,
Words spewed from mouths for reluctant penners trying to get it out without stumbling to the ground.
One me,
One you,
Millions of writers with their fingers twitching, waiting for the moment.
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