Short Stories, Baking & other stuff

Why is it when in verbal intercourse?
The words flow so easily from the brain to the tongue.
Yet when sitting alone, with quill in hand, poised above the parchment
the words fail to appear.
The untouched purity of the parchment mocks, taunts, and dares,
the black blood of the quill, to defile its unspoiled face.
Then without warning, the quill attacks, hacking, and slashing words across the parchment,
in the quills own unrestrained rhythm.
Those same words worn so thin by use,
uttered, time upon time, appear on the parchment once more for all to perceive.
The quill spills its ink,
like blood spilling from the heart, upon its surface.
And in its wake, the words reveal all the secrets,
the loves, and sorrows of your existence that time has fashioned on your life..

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