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 was yesterday,
But in its wake:
A red mess on a once-white page
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