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 always feel pressured into
being grateful for the biggest things i can
which to me always sounds like i'm shouting for forgiveness
instead of gratitude. i never get to say i'm grateful
there are all the things I could do with three minutes alone in my room
I have an essay to write and Hebrew to study
I have things to look up and notifications to check
on november first we said
ohgodit'snovemberalreadywheredidallthetimego taking
up all the time in the world with our breath.
on november fifth we said
ohgodpleaseprotectushavemercyonoursins praying
Comments
I love this poem, and I feel this! Do keep writing! :)
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