Wednesday, November 7, 2012

A Hand Holding a Pen

I woke up this morning with magical lines

bouncing off the walls of my mind.

I wrote a whole poem before I opened my eyes,

yet sitting before me, a pen that lies.

Suddenly, my brain is a silent room

stuffed with nothing but feelings of doom.

Raindrops slip down with their own quiet sound,

and my eye twitches its thundering pound.

The clouds’ lines are grey and the pavements are puddled.

It’s peaceful, yet painful. My mind’s all a muddle.

I had dreams of today, a clear line in my vision.

But now it’s a fog without recognition.

My rhymes all follow a confused little stream.

                This headache has left me unable to dream.

Can’t I just trace my hand holding a pen

and count that my writing? ...It’s a place to begin.


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