sometimes
when my fingers don't itch to write
and the keyboard is a faraway memory,
i curse myself
curse the world
because i feel like poetry is pointless.
why
do my hands know exactly how
to spin silken threads of words,
dew glittering in the sunlight?
why
does an ache appear in my ribs
when i ignore the tapestries i've woven,
focusing on the science fair, the math project, the anything else?
why do i feel like poetry is pointless
sometimes?
i may never know
but all i can do
is keep writing.
I walk home wearing twin braids with bows
and a big smile because I'm wishing for snow.
Snow like a blanket, thick and white,
I want it to fall all through the night -
to cover the roads and the trees and the hills,
her name began with a d and her hair curled in gold ringlets like coins
and her laugh was infectious and her smile was too
and her eyes sparkled when they caught the light. she walked
i think cats read poetry. you can tell
in the way their tails swish and how they fold their legs
all the time, probably wondering how silvery the pinecones
will look tomorrow,
Comments
I love this poem, and I feel this! Do keep writing! :)
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