“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Thursday, October 3, 2019
Implementation
This pen writhes
hisses and spits
poison darts
from the bow of my fingertips.
I wrestle and choke
it down
on an empty
page
the feeling bleeds through
the collected pulp
smearing the white sheet.
Against bone,
the pressure to cave in
begins
at the first period.
Etching the paper
so that complete erasure
is not an option. I strangle
the words, Go On,
in the process.
Artwork credited by Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum, 17th-19th century [Public domain].
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Ebb and Flow
The seagull shrieking in the near distance is the cry of my heart for the sea I so long to be near once again. The puffy slanted clouds ar...

-
When I wonder do we first think we Are welcome to the world? From the abyss of a watery womb we hear outside of Us w...
-
We know more about people we've never known than ever before. Before now, you did not know who you did not know, and who you ...
-
Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. In California...
No comments:
Post a Comment