The Palm Of My Hand

The lines cross like motorways,
And the rain leaves splashes on the roads,
There are no cars,
Just the pen,
Coating the paper in ink,
As sweat drips of my palm,
And splashes like bullets onto the paper.

by Nick Hilton

Comments (2)

Hi Nick...very nice read. Yes...I have felt this also...very nice read. You have very neatly captured this in precise wording.... Lare Austin
I have had the experience of that, thinking almost the same, bullets and all. Good poem H