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The poet is tired
Her back curled over her table writing poems
Remembering good memories
And bumping into horrid others along the way
Finding words that romanticizes everything
Sore fingers from writing on paper
Blunt fingertips from typing on keyboard
And fatigued eyes from staring at the blank paper
Or blank screen
As she deals with blank memories
As she tackles her ever so present writer's block
Outside her home
The poet is tired
From breathing smoke filled air
And hearing empty compliments and good remarks
Seeing the polluted place and remembering people's polluted mind
With screams of obligation and responsibilities shackled around her legs
The poet is tired
The poet is tired of writing
But not her poetry at the same time
She is tired
But her soul is beyond exhausted
Poetry feeds her soul
Because she has fallen in love with everything that has soul
And love is supposed to take care of you
And soothes you until the very depth of your being
And that is what poetry does to the poet
Writing tires her body
But her poetry soothes her soul
-eris'
YOU ARE READING
Scintilla
Poetrysomething you might want to read when you're too drunk in love you don't remember what being sober feels like
