Black ink on the paper
Smudged by the fingers of my own right hand
The words I meant to write
And the things the ended up there instead
Gravity pins me to a place I never imagined I would be
I blame gravity and hold on with both hands
I curse gravity yet coddle it as one I nurse at my own breast
Covering blemishes with foundation like the rest
Striving for perfection in the midst of this splendid mess
I feel strangely unaffected, tearing at the grass
Ruining this good creation whilst it stands at its best
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