600
And I wonder
if mother of poetic
speaking,
takes account of
my wasted paper marks.
All pen motions made
at solid grip that
let loose of her creation.
Those days I was
a mere student,
at command of the
dull grey haired teacher.
Letting this writing implement
bleed upon one paged essays,
over being a tool for
assistance in talented
literature.
Could this be why
she curses the writer's
race with abandonment of
new works?
Her form of aggression
delivered as a punishment
for our written errors.
Oh how I wonder
if she can read my remorse.
