White Page

Is it a click, or a tap,
the scratch of pen a distant memory,
but the hand is still the same.
Yet different, aged, changed,
scars remind of youthful pain
that has turned into an adult.
But the page is still the same;
the only one who listens
to cries that flowed out of fingertips
when the cries that fell from twisted lips
fell deaf to those that promised to listen.
28 years old,
Still the same kid hugging her knees
against the door that does little
to blunt the disappointed screams.
Red angry lines reminding her she was alive.
Once, but age has made unsteady hands.
Blinking insertion points taught more
than the endless stream of words
from those who never understood.
Change is good, for some it seems,
but the road that diverges comes round on itself
and the thick woods give no edge of light.
So it’s midnight all the time,
despite the blinking light that claims it to be nine.
Another day, another breath,
a choice in the matter of a daily regret.
So sit and stare at the unwavering line,
the white page’s grave sign.

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