Wine and Writing on a Cold Night

Here I sit,

Rooted to a chair,

Drinking myself dry,

With my curly hair

Here I sit,

With wine in a hand,

And pen in the other,

Every breath a sigh,

Every limb out of joint,

Lost in a red sea of self-pity

As my eyes stare down at the pages I seem to lose all creativity. I cannot continue despite how much I exert myself. The experience is painful, like I’m cutting myself from fear that filling the blank before me will lead to a disastrous result. But still I stare in hope, I must. I have no other choice, though, secretely, I relish the struggle. If its what it takes, I will will cut myself, and colour my blank world to the tint of red.

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