Almost Poetry: Writing

The soft scratch of the pen on the paper
Soothing, like
Two hands on your shoulders
Kneading away the tension
Only
It’s your mind.

The acrid smell of ink
mesmerizing, like
Old whiskey you sniffed in secret behind your parents’ back
Only
You still get drunk.

The formed words
like souls,
Pulling you in,
Spitting them out
Only
They got a part of yours, too.

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