A dozen pens have here
Been rested in my grip
This night
and none of them feel right.
Try as I might to write,
it pains me to admit, but
I am afraid.
The sprawling canvas of my soul
that I remember to be
blossoming and sweet,
it now feels cruel to me.
It's cold.
It is cold and I am afraid
to allow myself to spill
with this ink.
I cannot merge with words
for fear of writing my soul
into being.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Poetry Vol. I
PoetryA collection of previous poetry written by me, left the way it was when I discovered it. There are no specific genres or forms to these.
