Scribbles of ink

Slither along clean paper

Shedding layers of truth

Don't let the pen bite

The liquid is poison

Slowly eating away at your insides

No ani-venom found

Too late

You've been infected

If only there were a cure

A white-out for a poets mind

Or a reset button hidden in

Sweaty pencil palms

Don't stand too close

It's infectious

You read my poem

You write your own

The pattern repeats

Soon you'll have stacks of journals

Filled with the writings

Of a poet

That's how it is

More and more people

Get sick daily

But the poetry never dies