An inkling; a drip a single eraser trail marking what could have been at one point some very important words. Pink polka, left behind secret message telling tales of juice long ago spilled, but ah yes, never forgotten. Hint of green stalk bursting forth from dirty, rocky, grungy swath of land Empty before, sadly lacking excitement Soon to be populated By beautiful blooms. Lone tear casually drips off the end of your nose Silent, gentle reminder That not all is right.
I like to write. I haven't done it enough.