i cannot seem to write anymore.
gone, the days of furious penning
that delivered a trail of thoughts
to your door.
now, my inkwell is full of air
and dried crumbly scrapings
of purple berried residue.
and this paper? yellowed onion-skinned
husk of memory, too flimsy to withstand
the heavy strokes of my pen.
no, i cannot seem to write anymore.
here, thought floats through my head.
i play ****** and grab, clutch at nothing.
swimming, swimming words,
a wispy film before my eyes.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 10:45 AM UTC
i cannot seem to write anymore.
gone, the days of furious penning
that delivered a trail of thoughts
to your door.
now, my inkwell is full of air
and dried crumbly scrapings
of purple berried residue.
and this paper? yellowed onion-skinned
husk of memory, too flimsy to withstand
the heavy strokes of my pen.
no, i cannot seem to write anymore.
here, thought floats through my head.
i play ****** and grab, clutch at nothing.
swimming, swimming words,
a wispy film before my eyes.
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