Monday, January 4, 2010

POEM: thru this pen

There is no real comfort
for me now
no haven for my body
to find peace
to retreat into
no deep rest
from this wearying plague
any escape left to me
flows only thru this pen


Chuck Dilmore said...

i was *just* thinking
before i read this one:

we live in the mind.
the body is just a tool.
and you will rule the latter with the former!


slowly, you will replace
the pain with thoughts,
pictures of the way you will be when you are well.


The Writing Instinct said...

In this time of need express your pain. We are here to read your words, to listen with our hearts.

Snowbrush said...

Wow! I know what you mean, but I don't know why it should be so. Sometimes, I write and feel better, but not too long ago, I cried and cried and cried as I wrote, and I felt sick for two days. All energy gone. Nothing positive having come from the writing, that I could see. The drugs, the pain, the sleeplessness. What else might I do when I'm awake in the wee hours though? I can't read. Really, writing is all there is, and I've done it for decades, so it's a comfortable place for me to go.