Poetry

I sit and stare at white nothingness.

Too corroded with fear to do anything.

My brain ticks like a ticking clock.

So much time, yet none in stock.

Out of the white, spots of ink dots.

The language so foreignly  familiar It burns minds.

The page is filled with elaborate designs of curved lines.

All in a jumbled chaotic order.

It makes all the sense in the world,

yet none at all.

This is poetry.

Reviews

[Edicius]

That "foreignly familiar" line speaks volumes. To the person behind the pen, the jumbled mess that can be our thoughts just appears so organized on the page as if it was the plan all along. Great work!

[Wyrn Tiger]

well you know the pen is the expression of sole and our sole is the power of will, will to fight will to survive. my will is to inspire and to help my will is that the world will see peace but for know it is only a cherished dream.

[Najam Us Saher]

You have given a true definition of poetry. Beautifully written.