April 21, 2008
By Katie Miles, Jacksonville, OR

The smell of colored pencils
Reminds me of that summer
Oak moss bitter burning
Cracking of the wood
Of the grain
Lead skipping
The popping fizzing
Dark walls dimmed lights
A mastermind of a madman
Scribbling heart bleeding
Onto the paper
Nothing but scribbles
No masterpiece
Only black holes filled with dust
The requite if you will
Of the savage rips and tears
Of the scar tissue building
spider webs behind their eyes
In their sockets
The scent of poison
Of the colored pencils
The flaw of my demise

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