With pen in hand
I sit and wait
Wondering what images
The Muse will deliver.
Some are bleak
And pain me so
But I write them anyway.
For in doing so
Releases me from
Demons I may not realize.
Or frees me of wounds
Buried long ago
And forgotten.
Whether I share them
Or not
Is entirely up
To me.
Sandra, here we are again, you with your introspective poetry and me with more books. Thanks for checking out my blog again. Be well. Thinking of you.
Great poem, Sandy, and one I’m sure all writers can relate to!