My handwriting used to be
messy. Squiggles sprinkling
down, winding, swinging round.
Words danced on paper to the
melody of my young mind.
Stories splattered on white canvas,
not crafted and carved. Ink
subverted grey lines, fleeting
away in ultraviolet light.
I can't read my old writing.
My words were reserved for myself.
I don't think like I used to.
Ink conforms into those grey lines.
Letters engraved into paper with sharpened tools.
My handwriting used to be messy,
I wish it still was.
YOU ARE READING
magpies
Poetrya poetry anthology containing sentimental and somber poems that give you the opportunity to reflect on your life and loved ones
