Poet without ink
My throat is sore,
Filled with panic.
I am not able to speak.My eyes are closed.
Different shades of black,
because I can't notice
any kind of colors anymore.
I am not able to see.Words are crashing my inner ears.
The world is screaming at me,
Too loud to understand.
I am not able to hear.My hands are bounded,
into the cages that were built
out of pain.I am lost.
Left with nothing,
but a piece of paper.But what is a poet without ink?
Nothing.
I am nothing.
YOU ARE READING
Wondering
PoetryThis may be burning, crashing or hurting. But these are my words. This is me.