Sentenced

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writing can be a torture almost as bad as not writing

I wear my heart on paper
Ink fills my veins like blood
reviews cut like a razor
but I’m addicted to the pen.

I pump words with every heartbeat
I hoard paragraphs in my room
I take interjections like a junkie
I wear verbs like a parfum.

I’m feeling the contractions
as I erase awkward phrases
I write sad poems that feel like skin.
and fill sheets of diary pages

I blush at lurid pronouns
that I conjure then,
I consider putting word-play off
but I’m sentenced to the pen
.
.
.
*Inspired by Michael R. Burch's poem: At the Natchez Trace

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John Gondolf

Date: 12/9/2020 11:03:00 AM

Thin is a very clever write, Anais, I like what you have done. And BTW I too am shocked by the lurid pronouns conjured with your pen... (just kidding, I think they added a little spice to your stories) :)

Anais Vionet
Date: 12/9/2020 11:16:00 AM

Thanks john =]