the more poems i
let flow through
the black-ink pen onto the yellowing
empty pages,
the more i discover is troubling me.
i do this to heal.
i do this so i won't be suffocated
by the words trying to
crawl up my
throat.
i once thought that the oasis
with my soul swirling
in it
would never be
reachable.
but now that i have,
i am gulping down handfuls
like an animal, i am never satisfied.
my greedy mind
wishing to forever feel the high
of writing
the perfect poem.
my hand clenched
around the silver pen
almost moving by itself
feverishly,
until slowly it winds down
burnt out
and the drought returns.
i do this to heal.
but each time i open my mind
and let the words flow freely,
a new problem surfaces
the need to write
a new poem eating you up.
it is a never ending cycle
one that i foolishly let myself fall into.
one that i happily let myself fall into.
