Where did all the poetry go?
The creative flow seeped through the floor.
Is my head empty-
or full?
My thoughts are embedded like splinters
needing to be dug out with tweezers.
These feel ripped from my chest,
a weight lifted and aching.
I stare at this notebook every day
The silence of my mind is too deafening
to sit
to slow down
to not be distracted
This hurts in a way I cannot describe.
YOU ARE READING
Dumping Grounds
PoezieSometimes when you are dumping your mind, poetry arises. In this anthology, travel with me to dreamy places or the dark corners of my mind, perhaps invoking the writer in you. I hope these pieces speak to you in some way as they have to me. Dumping...
