Writer's DystopiaMature

Another blank page,

Laced in black ink,

Dark in every sense of the word,

A page becoming less blank,

Dyed to stripes and swirls of glistening black,

Eaten away by an addiction,

A relentless need,

To record every miserable minute,

That pounds and pulses like a bruise,

That slowly drags by like the process,

Of bleeding to death when an inexperienced hand held the blade,

The page in eclipsed by the darkness,

That I need to survive,

Ink-sodden letters embedded in whiteness,

Sparkle in the dim candle-light,

Tattoo and immortalise,

Each mundane and miserable page,

That Nobody cares enough to read,

The torturous musings of a Nobody,

The work of a Loner like me.

The End

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