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.
it is Halloween morning
and pouring rain.
wake up & look out the window -
you were always a constant to me.
there was a book in the back of our classroom
tucked between crates of other, more important tomes
it had a picture of you on the cover and i read it almost every day
The West Wind is a banker in a smart navy suit and a tie. His dress shoes clack on the pavement; he’s got someplace to be, always someplace to be, rushing to the sidewalk, the subway, the elevator, checking his gold Rolex watch.
Comments
I love this poem, and I feel this! Do keep writing! :)
Log in or register to post comments.