The Pen In My Hand
there are many kinds of hands
hands that caress like my mother's did
hands that clench in anger
and those that reach out like my lover will
hands that hold my pen to write bleeding words
until one day the pen is stilled and my hands tied
my muse missing in solitude
this poet's hand locked and my pen frozen
and down, down I slip into darkness
perhaps I will hold a pencil
in my hand to write my poetry, perhaps
the freedom of erasing will make a difference
but I am struggling like I am lost in a storm
my hands hold the pencil poised but no words come
until, until muse quietly lifts my hand from
the cold darkness
and muse and I are drowning in the sunshine
and my pen is dripping words
___________________
June 3, 2021
Poetry/Verse/The Pen in My Hand
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1360-933-03
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, The Poet's Hands Are Tied
sponsor, Kai Michael Neumann, Judged 06/27/2021
Seventh Place
Copyright © Constance La France | Year Posted 2021
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