For a long while I’ve wanted my feelings to form some semblance of a precipice that I could call poetry. Instead the more I build up the more I want to throw myself off the top. Fly by the stack of almost published that lies on my desk. Fling myself past the crumpled up papers of lost ideas soaring towards the can. Ricochet from the side of the trash to sit with eraser pieces. This poem is just another idea, wiped away from the precipice.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 9:38 PM UTC
For a long while I’ve wanted my feelings to form some semblance of a precipice that I could call poetry. Instead the more I build up the more I want to throw myself off the top. Fly by the stack of almost published that lies on my desk. Fling myself past the crumpled up papers of lost ideas soaring towards the can. Ricochet from the side of the trash to sit with eraser pieces. This poem is just another idea, wiped away from the precipice.