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Faceplant
in the harsh yellow sand
of a blank legal pad
with a pen in my hand
and a scrape on my arm
bleeds a blue stream of words
which my pen quickly catches
and forms into chords
of my mind's crazy music
a haphazard dance
spinning into deep nonsense
with hardly a chance of my sanity
seeping through.
"And for the briefest instant, it almost feels like we’re together again."
Nicholas Sparks, Dear John (The Final Sentence)
(Source: the-final-sentence)