Blank Poem by Paul Brookes
Blank
Sometimes you want to write a line
but the line turns into a snake
that bites you on the hand
and you wonder is that poison
but you carry on and the line turns into a bat
which flies away into the night taking all your thoughts with it
and all you have is a line and a brick wall
and its all read in one breath but you died anyway.
Wednesday, September 2, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: writings
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4/26/2024 3:17:08 PM # 1.0.0.1119
