Sunday, September 11, 2016



night paints a dark picture
even stars refuse
to be part of

still moist it drips into a cup
heart opens with emptiness

I write to fill with words 
that pretend to be big
but they are too heavy
dragged across the brittle
floor of the heart

screeching like chalk
on blackboard that others
mistake for crickets

P.S.: Have not been writing much and never been more unsure about poetry - what is it again?

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