[the love of the lady]
pen strokes and ink blots in terrible patterns
which brighten my day at the sight,
to pitter and patter and placidly ponder
and scratch it all down on the back of a napkin:
am i, then, a writer? am i?
when anger would pour out on pieces of paper
or joyous bright rapture on small notebook scraps
when sadness and anxiousness swiftly piled up
on shiny backs of advertisements
have the power to turn me to white or to black:
am i then, a writer? am i?
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