Words come to me, they bother,
With the ferocity of a wolf seething from hunger,
My hair disheveled, my eyes torn by sand,
Yet I dragged my pen across paper,
Let ink stain lines between promises and man
I drew the shovel from one corner, the barrow from the other,
And scoured the garden of withered words like a frenzied robber,
'til I find the right place, 'til I find the right line,
Before these words, itching to burst forth,
Betray me and let itself ripple through time
YOU ARE READING
Confessions of a Tired Poet
PoetryWhat kind of poem would you write if you stopped caring about everybody else? Confessions of a Tired Poet is a collection of short poems that gives you a backstage pass to the life of a poet who's sick and tired of his life. This is the front seat t...
