Don't wait, write it now.
All day the pen plunges
into the inkpot and resurfaces
to find no hand to guide it
over the warm page.
All day the poet attends
a real job, social media scrolls,
rendezvous with a winter lover
(you'll see, they'll melt this summer)
and endless calls to whoever
'cause loneliness kills, doesn't it?
The poem nods and drifts
a little further from the pen's tip.
YOU ARE READING
Waiting for the Rain to Fall
PoésiePoems that twine thread around the broken bits of a soul, that fling umbrella lips into beaming buckets and kind of just make you want to say, "life is beautiful, isn't it?" - a totally unbiased review from me, the author.
