Putting Down The Pen

this must feel

similar to dying:

breath-theft; like

an unwelcome man

the sky is on me

and all of its

accusing planets --

nine womb-rooted

children; their

too-soon screaming

hurts me like

fresh-cut horizon:

you can’t write

loud enough

it should be

nothing without

blood; without


fingers or the


but I hear what’s

said in the not-said;

I hear it like


in my head

until all the poetry

I ever wrote

is comma-curled

in death.


suzzie1107 suzzie1107
22-25, F
Mar 8, 2010