red

no such thing as writer’s block

the curtains in my room are red

yesterday it rained

they bled across the floor

flowed into my heart

no such thing as writer’s block

two rough hands glazed a clay pot

sea green swirled in pink

one bright romantic begonia left

bare branches kindling sticks

no such thing as writer’s block

red leather wallet by my ankle

stuffed full of receipts

not cash i’m afraid to admit

this writer spent everything she has

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