Wednesday, March 27, 2013

when again

words have stopped flowing like tears
creating comfortable silence
where previous temperments
made for tempermental tapping furiously upon keyboards
like machine gun fire
couldnt get the letters on the screen fast enough
when i wanted to write about this sense of dissatisfaction
that lingering feeling
left dry at the roof of my mouth
the taste leftover when the cocktails have stopped
numbing the fact that life isnt getting any better.
what is a writer to do when the anger ceases?
when soft kind eyes find their own
when reassuring hands tear down walls guarding hearts
only to expose the sugar coated lovesongs that lived there all along?
the sad poems are not rolling off my tongue
instead i want to doodle hearts in the margins of my notebook
write his name next to mine in blue ink
the writer in me- wearing black
who counted the coffee rings that began to stack
over and over and on top of one another
as the days ticked away slowly
redundant and anticlimactic is slowly
drawing her last breaths
only to be replaced by this bright eyed
smiling girl
who has started to believe in magic again
who has started to sing along to love songs
with windows rolled down
on freeways that lead me to him
words have stopped flowing like tears
they have changed into a mantra
repeated three words over and over
to turn the light back on and illuminate this room

1 comment:

krista said...

yep. i remember when you told me bryan stole my angst away. and what does a writer write about if there is no angst?

you're doing it well, though, sister. writing the good.