WRITING
“Why you writing?”
I like to strip paper of its virginity, thrusting in my pen and scratching, clawing, ensuring every crevice of its unadulterated skin is exploited. The penetrating ink bleeds within, infecting till the page is ravaged of worth like discarded gift-wrapping left quivering and torn on the floor. Then I expose the next submissive page, vigorously disgracing page after page like a string of insignificant harlots paid and discarded to the back alleys of reality. Until all the beautiful potential that is a blank page is brutally gagged and pillaged like the treacherous daydream that served as my saviour.
“I just like writing” – I said
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