Blank page poetry is a real thing.
It helps me see into scrambled egg thinking; paves way for putty like dreams;
Slipping between my grasp and need for a sleep worth falling into.
This thing to do and another hope to cling to;
Madness and calm, pairing in unison with the night fading away into shivery sunshine.
Letters somehow connect.
I don’t really get it either but,
that’s the mystery of a blank page poetry scriber.
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