Every word when expressed is bound to fall into a certain type.. Kind.. form..prose..verse.. a short story. But what is one supposed to do with words that don't fall but fly.. flow

Remember learning to write with a pencil! All mistakes could be erased. And there! a couple of strokes of the eraser, u had a new beginning. And then you grew up..

Fluid, blotting paper- all to cover your mistakes, my mistakes. ink splattered on a sheet of white paper. Gone. The paper! you can't possibly use it again.. unless offcourse you are planning to convert it into a punk poster or a modern piece of abstract art. But yes just a piece..

Blots, spots, splits on paper, cloth, ur fingers. Let me clean it for you! I am here still here. I never grew up, I flew...

I don't like ink I am still stuck with the pencil I have no art to claim I just erase And start all over again