My pen's got ink,
no room to think
there's nothing in my brain,
I think I'm going insane.
As I wash the ink stain,
out of my brain,
so I have room to think.
Blank slate,
empty plate,
sidewalk grate,
sunshine that I hate.
Gray slab,
child hands that grab,
food smell,
empty shell,
sound of a bell,
reminds me that I'm late.
But I don't care
about brushing unruly hair,
so I lay
in bed all day
so maybe I can think.
What am I left with?
What am I?
What?
-
Author:
RienBarker (
Offline) - Published: December 13th, 2016 17:57
- Comment from author about the poem: I was at a time when I literally couldn't think straight, and I realized that no one else felt that way. I guess I was just spouting word-vomit.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 29
Offline)
Comments1
Absolutely brilliant!
I loved it!
That's how I feel right this minute.. spot on! 🙂
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