Sometimes I write poems. They might not be your thing, but I like doig it. Below is one I've written that I like.
It’s the itch and scratch like a bug flying by your ear, an electronic buzz in your brain, and you promised, demanded, that you were a rock, a mountain. But from this great height Your face tightens, and you’re sure that if you cling to that thin rope it will stretch and Not break against your trembling weight. You hear mumblings in mahogany about “history” and open-ended questions set like traps for your brain’s wild gait. Still standing, though you run through the minefield in the hope that you’ll be Better.
0 Comments
|
AuthorAn aging English major rediscovers her passion for education and writing and tries to pursue a career in her field against all odds. Profanity, hilarity, and entertainment ensue. ArchivesCategories |