There was no way of telling that her ache to write.. was raging
a roar of pulse, inside her wrist
like rain flows up from root
to rouse expression
enshrined, beneath the flesh
what words does she own
that have not
already been said?
Today's wordplay was created from a cool prompt on Twitter I found this afternoon.
When my days begin to blur.. and the words get stuck inside between my wrist and knuckle.
When I'm sure I will Never, ever think I'll be able to create another corner piece poem.
Written while curled in the niche of this oh so silent room.
These walls do not see me, or contain me, as the poetry flows through my hand, then sent to social screens.
Daring.. to be seen.
Doubts and distractions row within the arteries of my insecurities.
Y ou will never be a real writer.. tap these whispers in the rain.
And my muse.. stays still and silent in the shadow of a breeze.
Then I manage to jiggle some letters, get them out my heart.. and find release