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 =]