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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Contest Entry · #1843774
I quick sonnet about the depression that often marries a crossword puzzler
What a time to have forgotten my pencil.
Who does the Sunday crossword in pen?
Only a fool from an Ivy League stencil.
That isn’t me. I’ve messed it all up again.

“Likened to light bulbs, though not as brite.”
Is the misspelling of “brite” some kind of clue?
“Warrior of Vale, predestined to fight.”
Where the hell is Vale? Did I learn that in school?

The ink stains are slashes on a paper-thin cadaver;
Black blood pointing out how my brain is too weak.
Sitting dejected, people ask “What’s the matter?”
I write out how I’m just too stupid to speak.

Unfinished puzzle crisscrossing my life.
“Fourteen across’s first and third wife.”

Line Count: 14
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