I take a sip of coffee and nothing comes. There are no words when I want them. Isn’t that the same with anything? You get no love when you’re lonely, no jokes when you’re sad, no energy when you’re trying to pick yourself up.
I try to type a poem, but my fingers gravitate only to the symbols:
My thoughts are worried bushes I keep pricking myself on.
There are too many thorns in my skin and
no words when I want them.
No metaphors I can chase the
the “before tears”
lump in throat with.
To deal with this,
many drink or
see a shrink.
The ambitious write pages of blank verse.
I, hungry and covered in cuts,
decorate my floor with crumpled up mistakes.
I trust the words will come.
But I pick up a pen and the poem that follows is: