Running out of pages,
these words—
they turn into
a jumble of thoughts
no one can understand.
A work of art,
running out of ink,
that never came to be.

Roots—
they never blossomed,
they withered away,
drying up
under a pile of soil.

I'm ripping out pages
in anger,
clinging
to words
I might not even believe in.
One by one,
just to leave them
crumbled,
dust,
turning—
into sand.

The wind picks it up,
flipping to the next page,
that’s already starting to crumble.
My pen
starts to write
on its own.