Filling pages has never been so easy.
It's as if you're a key to the door
Of my mind.
A barrage of stored-up ideas come
Tumbling out,
Clamoring to be made sense of.
I pick my way through the rubble,
Selecting a dream here,
An idea there.
Pieces to a puzzle
Parts to a story
I gather my thoughts in jars, and,
Dipping my pen,
Spill them on forgivingly blank pages.
Nothing is as wonderful
As opening a book
And finding it filled with
Myself.
YOU ARE READING
poems from the darkroom
PoetryI can't always say how I feel, but collecting poems from the corners of my brain and the millions of half-full notebooks makes me feel a little better. I hope you can relate to them, or at least be distracted from life for a moment :)
