A myriad of bound pages,
Lie among the scattered ruins on the floor.
The yellowing pages, like an old man's last years,
Sleep frail and torn.
Crinkled, loose pages of attempted creativity
Crumble into tiny balls of frustration, fuming at their bed.
The black fountain of curling letters
Rests softly on the forest ground,
His cap missing in a maze of words.
by Chelsea Wozniak, 14, Blythewood, South Carolina