Poetry (words)


Sunday morning melancholia oozing from my pores. Pouring from my fingertips like a billion ink filled spores. 

This desire to spill emotions onto the blank white page. Like the urge of the wild bird incarcerated in a cage. 

Untangling the tangled, these puzzles in my heart. Never knowing where they’re going or why they ever start. 

But start they do and I’ll see it through until the words run dry. I’m not here to find the answers, just the reasons why. 


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