Sometimes I wonder if there is ink in these veins

I am not so much a who as a where

Constantly in flux

Moving butterfly-like from one idea

To the next

Try to pin me down and you'll only cut yourself

On paper-dolls and crumpled balls

Of ideas best left in the waste bin

Sometimes I wonder if there is ink in these veins

Instead of blood

You see, these stories have been bubbling

In the cauldron of memory

Since before I knew the meaning of time

Sometimes I put them down on paper

Sometimes not

But more often than not these characters

Enter skipping laughing through the echoing halls of my mind

Only to leave without saying good-bye

 

The End

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