Winding Roads

I find,

That when I

Can’t write poetry,

All the shit that usually

Flows out the black

Ink on the page,

Stains my soul instead.

Thats when shit gets dark,
and thoughts get murky,
and cold steel seems much more appealing,
and voices sound convincing,
and winding roads
Snap and straighten,

and all of a sudden–

It doesn’t hurt anymore.

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