Short Asides

My brain is turned to soft tallow.

Words drip through my pen

like the slow leak of a faucet.

But I am a writer,

and I must write.

My body is plagued by exhaustion.

My hand drags across the page

like snails moving across hot pavement.

But I am a writer,

and I must write.

Wrote a new stanza at work over 12 hours later. Updated the poem to reflect. This is what being tired does to my writing. Love you all. ~Amanda H.

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