As the words flash back
into my mind, one millisecond
is all that it takes
for the cream-colored pages
to levitate to the surface
of my memory. Just

like the night with my eyes
scanning the lines which
were green or blue, can't remember,
but just like the pen that I decided to raise
in my hand, I carelessly spilled that

crime

onto the vanilla-colored pages,
a messy vomit of words.
But clarity was never the issue.
It has always been insincerity
with words words words,
the power of words words words
stifled behind the visage of a blank painting
and layered over with white wallpaper.
That transgression---oh! I cannot think
all the metaphors, diction, similes

I could have used to say good-bye, but
I chose the path of a malefactress and
now I hate that letter how can I
call myself a poet, when I cannot
express even this, it is a trophy
of my writing crime