Note: This is an older poem. Probably written mid 90’s when I was very angsty.
This page is my escape route.
But, reality is not an ink refill.
It is but the pen
that has just run out;
you can barely see it,
but the imprint is there.
If I had an eraser
I could make the ink disappear.
I would have to rub
and I might rip the paper.
Then I would have to start over.