These are my inky deeds, 
they grow like weeds.

My paper is saturated with every
word I’ve written,
my pockets are over flowing
with my thoughts.

My poetry can build a river,
it’s bank’s green and mossy,
the water’s talk telling their stories.

Each journey becomes a ink smear,
each footstep, a new memory,
each paper is a bed full of intrigue,
each word is a trail for all to follow.

It’s a mystery to me
what I will write next.
Though I never fail
to share what intrigues me.


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