Justine scratches the little bumps on her forehead and smoothens the paper in front of her. She lowers her hand and picks up the chewed up pencil sitting by her paper. She puts it back down without writing anything and puts her finger in her mouth. This is ridiculous.
She sighs, and for the fifteenth time today erases the one word she’s written. Turbulence. Her hopes of being a deep and insightful author are diminishing. She sees it all now. There are her dreams, of ever controlling anybody with her words, seeping out like puss from a pimple.
Eww.
YOU ARE READING
Plonk
Poetrya collecтιon oғ poeмѕ, ѕнorт ѕтorιeѕ, ιncoмpleтe тнoυgнтѕ, venтѕ, and raιny day wrιтιngѕ.
