The bard with no tales

The words stare at me, Stay put, far away, in the Corner of creativity; the rivers Are frozen and the neurons Clogged. I go after them, ice pick in hand, And with blow after blow, break Off random rhymes That fall to the pages and Melt into islands of nothingness. My muscles beg for reprieve…

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Paper white

There is this game we play where silence speak volumes and affection is shortened into letters. In the spaces between, emotions are compressed, and cursory courtesies are code words that dissolve in vitreous humor and swim towards the amygdala to conceive happiness. I feel the first kick of loss when the silence stops speaking stretches…

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