Writing about writing when you’re struggling to write.

My little black book
Sits in my back pocket,
Collecting the words
That slip off my tongue.
With a little black pen
That touches my temple,
It filters a record
Of all that I see.

So I strain through the truth
In my little black book
Try to present it
So you’ll understand.

But my words are stained glass.

A fragmented picture.

They don’t quite make sense.

When you can’t see the lines.

Advertisements