deepundergroundpoetry.com
Puddle of a Poem
Did my tears or pencil ruin my poem?
I’m sitting at my desk. My pencil is peeling the paper away revealing a crop behind it. With each pick, more and more beauty is unearthed. The holes are then filled with the waterfalls above. The steady streams flow. Some hit the pasture. Others hit around. Ruining what I have just harvested. Smudges of what used to be solid are now only muddied puddles. Was it my tears or pencil that ruined my poem?
I’m sitting at my desk. My pencil is peeling the paper away revealing a crop behind it. With each pick, more and more beauty is unearthed. The holes are then filled with the waterfalls above. The steady streams flow. Some hit the pasture. Others hit around. Ruining what I have just harvested. Smudges of what used to be solid are now only muddied puddles. Was it my tears or pencil that ruined my poem?
Published 16th Feb 2015
| Edited 21st Feb 2015
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Anonymous
16th Feb 2015 9:17pm
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19th Feb 2015 2:33am
9th Apr 2015 3:42am
