Title: The Victorian downside
by Britta from Wales | in writing, poetry
my pen reaches the leaves
stabs of confusion
and good ol' songs
about what is right
and what has missed
the target
the target is me
I can barely see
the paper, my pen
moves in its own
way
I let it rip and
kill, like Pen the Ripper
oh, everything is so maroon.
The process of writing, I guess... The way you let go and never know the final result until you lift your eyes and read what your pen has written.
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