How many half-finished pieces
I've written.
My pencil slipping across the paper,
my fingers staining the blue lines.
Words echoing into oblivion,
thoughts tumbling away.
How many half-finished pieces
I've written.
Forgetting what I've said,
remembering what I was trying to say.
Looking at other's bits and trying to see
where their's line up with mine--even a little.
How many half-finished pieces
I've written.
Later awake than I should be,
rubbing at my eyes, blinking away the light.
Watching a cursor move as squiggles
take shape.
How many half-finished pieces
I've written.
Enough to fill another
with maybe an ounce of meaning.
I've written.
My pencil slipping across the paper,
my fingers staining the blue lines.
Words echoing into oblivion,
thoughts tumbling away.
How many half-finished pieces
I've written.
Forgetting what I've said,
remembering what I was trying to say.
Looking at other's bits and trying to see
where their's line up with mine--even a little.
How many half-finished pieces
I've written.
Later awake than I should be,
rubbing at my eyes, blinking away the light.
Watching a cursor move as squiggles
take shape.
How many half-finished pieces
I've written.
Enough to fill another
with maybe an ounce of meaning.
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Icestorm
Mar 31, 2018
This piece would only truly make sense to a community of writers ;). It is totally relatable (comparing your writing to others, staying up to late, forgetting ideas) and well written with both simplicity and meaning. I like the repetitiveness of your first few lines; it makes the poem flow nicely. Well done.