This writers block is getting ridiculous, I mean
My words have slipped from me faster than
Water through open fingers,
Pebbles drowning in a pond,
Overripe apples plummeting to their inevitable death.
I used to see inspiration everywhere, but now it's only you.
The beach, your hair
The trees, your strength
The sun, your future
The stars, your eyes.
I'm actually starting to get annoyed, I mean
My poetry is getting drier than
A desert in the middle of August,
My wintertime knuckles
Your sense of humor.
I've been wracking my brain,
I've consulted every person I know,
Every internet source I could grasp.
And I still can't seem to figure out why
You're the worst thing to happen to my poetry,
But the best thing to happen to me.
YOU ARE READING
My View from the Mount
PoetryA really close friend (she's the older sister I never had) once told me that I don't need to be established to consider myself a writer. So here I am. I'm a writer, but I'm not a professional. I'm just a girl with a pen who speaks through a notebook...
