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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Writing · #1306072
If the world around us could only speak of the wasted effort.

Write me out of this place.
The copier hums, illuminating,
projecting on this barren wall
light that I do not contain.

Surrounded by the infamy,
copious amounts of crumpled white
that failed to hit their mark,
scattered, make their own formations
on the seldom traversed ground.

An overworked sharpener
knows my bad aim, watches me
as I beg the ignorant pencil, *Pencil*
Write me out of this place.

© Copyright 2007 ❄️ BK ☃️ Winter 🌲 (ripglaedr3 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1306072