So they flee; once beautiful narratives detached from me and took off running.
For my own sake, I eventually follow and take off hunting.
Crossing the bridge to the ocean, finding no words above or beneath their pillars or the sun-setting shades on the water in motion.
Maybe I'll find the words perched on the bridge as a little black bird, who mirrored me in a way that resonated with my soul but whose tune sang not one melodic word.
I go to the ocean, and heavy waves collapsing onto beds of sand sighed no release for me, and I leave.
Home, I paint a picture and coaxed a thousand empty words out of it, that rang like broken records and sang to me deep into the night.
I awake to a blizzard, beautiful white.
A cold I felt I'd brewed with my mind
So I try and dive into a novel only to find my mind's waters shallow, and the pages became no more than ink printed paper.
I think myself incapable;
I look to the bottle, mostly white,
It sat on my nightstand by white papers that so longed for me to write.
I kick my head back and let the words pour from the bottle and back into me, loosening my grip, they could finally flow free.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
So they flee; once beautiful narratives detached from me and took off running.
For my own sake, I eventually follow and take off hunting.
Crossing the bridge to the ocean, finding no words above or beneath their pillars or the sun-setting shades on the water in motion.
Maybe I'll find the words perched on the bridge as a little black bird, who mirrored me in a way that resonated with my soul but whose tune sang not one melodic word.
I go to the ocean, and heavy waves collapsing onto beds of sand sighed no release for me, and I leave.
Home, I paint a picture and coaxed a thousand empty words out of it, that rang like broken records and sang to me deep into the night.
I awake to a blizzard, beautiful white.
A cold I felt I'd brewed with my mind
So I try and dive into a novel only to find my mind's waters shallow, and the pages became no more than ink printed paper.
I think myself incapable;
I look to the bottle, mostly white,
It sat on my nightstand by white papers that so longed for me to write.
I kick my head back and let the words pour from the bottle and back into me, loosening my grip, they could finally flow free.
Request permission to use this poem