Darkened room, no light to spare
She likes to sit alone and stare
Across the way, without a care

Her thoughts, indeed, do wander

No curtains hang on window panes
So many broken, let in the rain
And wash her reality down the drain

Reminiscing, moments squandered

Her hands, unsteady, though try she might
With cursed pens, no ink, spill white
As words, reflected, become quite trite

Why paper bleeds, she dare not ponder

Bending down to grasp the red
She finds her mind, uneasily shred
Is she now one, among the dead?

A thought, of which she grows fonder

April Writing Prompts – Cursed pens and bleeding paper

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