Writing is a Chronic Disease

“On most days                        

I thrive on emotions

Feed on them all grief, joy, and rage

Make them pretty

Weave them into poetry

Call it ‘literature’

But on days like today

I see your lifeless body in the mirror

Feel the cold of your skin

The numbness of you

And I can’t make it pretty

It’s agony that I can’t brew into a story

Or carve into poetry

It’s only later that I realize I’m writing

And there’s a draft flung across the room

My fingers are stained with ink

I look down at the words and read

‘I’ve done it again’”


Categorised in: Original Student Work, Uncategorized

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