Soulless, Mass-Produced Copies

Every time the pencil lead scratched the paper,

The words felt like scarring my own skin,

Drawing my own blood,

Crimson, graphite-grey, ink-black, ghostly white,

Even the boldest colours fade like winter roses.


The words blur together,

A page flows with a single, spidery vein,

Of mascara-dark tears.


The dark days were so clinically dealt with,

Converted from smeared grey and faded black,

To glossy text and paling pages,

Like a million other of its soulless, mass produced copies.

Why do you defy and destroy me with each re-read???


Why can't you be like you were before?

Everything like it all was before???

The End

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