Of Ink

poetry

I thought of something
witty that I’d try
to scratch down with
my pen but that
device is now
devoid of all the
stuff it used to give
so willingly.

All I needed was
but a few small
drops.

All I got was a
curly-cue in the corner
and a broken pen
cartridge on my
carpeted floor.

The ink, of course,
went everywhere

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