Steady Hands
They laughed at my feeble attempts to express myself,
then wondered why I spent so much time
alone in my room.
A closed door, blank paper.
A typewriter’s busy, furious clicking:
(Let me write, let me write,
let me fill up the blank skied night
with words.)
“Isn’t she ever coming out of there?
It’s not normal spending so many hours
alone in that room.”
Sweet oblivion reaches out its kind fingers
and buttons me up,
envelops me in the warmth of my little corner.
Words splash and spill
into midnight hours;
they shake their heads in puzzlement—
I am not one of them—
and I have no explanation to offer.
I kneel down
and mop up the spillage of words
with steady hands.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
