Whirlpool Writing

These stories
at my brain,
claw out pieces of me
that stick to pages
and hearts unknown.
I can’t get them out
fast enough
and they are always bland,
lackluster in the light
of so many poets
spinning webs of words
for the world to devour.
I plant emotions
on pages
and attempt
to name them poetry
and hope that my heart
won’t go unheeded.
I drown
in waves of words
written to people
who don’t exist in this reality,
who are echoes
of the ones I lost
in this whirlpool of writing
invading my brain.




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