I wrote a story,

Bland hero, a drawn out tale,

Pen in hand,

Regret in heart,

For the words now left,

For the ink now dry,

For the page now stained.

So I start to scribble

Scratch, scratch, scratch

The friction of my frustration

Bleeding through the page,

Drowning it in ink

Till I can seldom read a word

The sad little epic

Of an acquaintance I vaguely recall

Scratch, scratch, scratch

Now that man is a stranger,

The tragedy wasΒ yesterday,

But in its wake:

A red mess on a once-white page

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