It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away
As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start
But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save
Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self-pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out
Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone
YOU ARE READING
Broken Words
PoetryIsn't it odd how we can know human nature well enough to write poems that move others to tears yet must hear the words of others to cry alone?
