i hate having writer's block.
its like being surrounded by words
they hit me and move in a storm
like flies whose wings are too small,
I'm the eye of the cyclone
and i have got no hands to catch them.
they whisper in the whistle of the wind
i clutch my fist in the air like a maniac,
scream at them
destroyed and disarmed,
hating my salvation
and catching my death.
my only cure and poison,
both leaving without saying goodbye.
YOU ARE READING
notes app of a teenage girl
PoetryI depend on words and commas: a sleepy french toast and my lover's perfect flaws. a collection of poems, songs, thoughts, stories, and made-up scenarios of an Italian queer teenage girl who finds comfort in writing. I apologize for any errors, engli...
