Monday.
Last period.
I watch her write
furiously, laboriously.
Every week without fail
pen to paper, paper to pen,
no scratch that, these kids
their millennials,
so I watch her
process, type and backspace
furiously, laboriously.
I’ve come to relish the glare
of black words on white,
the hushed library soothing, her fingers moving
clicking me away from despair
as words, her words, fill pages
I’ll probably never read.
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Day 18 – Write a poem without any end rhyme, only internal rhyme.
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For the challenge, click here.
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