A poets thoughts...

My third and final poem is about writing poetry itself - a mad pastime, but an immensely fulfilling one!

 

When words don't come

 

Sometimes the words don't come,

They stutter on my finger tips,

They get stuck in the crevices

Of my mind

 

Sometimes I struggle to think

Of words that flow or rhyme,

I'll sit and stare for moments on end

Wasting precious time

 

When the words don't come,

I continue -

I write until

They slide off my bones,

Onto my keyboard

 

Until like Hemingway,

I bleed.

 

Andrea Vermaak