A cycle

Same poem, different fonts.

I continue to hope that things will change. Maybe a different metaphor, maybe a new moral.

I continue to write, only to see the same words. Rearranged. Worded differently. 

I continue to use up my ink, forcing myself to write new paragraphs. “Maybe this time, things will change” I tell myself.

Nothing has changed. 

The same words reappear on different sentences. Different colors yet it paints the same scene every time.

I want this cycle to end. I’m wasting my paper, and I’m running out of ink.

Maybe I’m over reacting, it’s just a poem after all.

I stop myself from writing anymore words. I’ve noticed that the ink on my pen has gone dry.