Black stain upon my hands
Inky and dark from smudging
Papers, with words scattered
Haphazardly thrown together
Nothing more than a jumbled list
Unorganized, random thoughts

Black stains upon my face
Inky and dark from rubbing
With stained hands,
While pondering
Scribbles that make no sense
To anyone other than myself

Renderings of my subconscious
On the paper, hands and face
Smelling of ink, dark and stained
To be unable to generate
A single coherent thought

Ennui ensues
Wishing to change
The channel in my mind
To watch something else
Capitulating to writer’s block
Waiting for “The End.”

©ÀC Elliott, 2016


9 thoughts on “Stained”

  1. This thought just popped up from reading your post. I see writing like digging for diamonds, gold or coal sometimes you are blindly searching and you get nothing. Sometimes you hit a deep pocket or seam of the good stuff and no matter where you turn greatness is all around you. There is a lot of gold still in those hills. Just because you are wandering in the dark today doesn’t mean you can’t hit the mother load tomorrow.

    Liked by 1 person

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