Blank and powerless
She lay curled up
In the shadows
Of the Sunday sky
Pleading for thoughts
To impale her mind
Waiting for words
To reappear behind those sleep dusted eyelids
"Aren't you going to write again?"
I think I've lost my imagination
YOU ARE READING
Stolen Goods
Poetrymisleading title full of random words strung together pieces of my world
