Walking Prose

Stuck. 

Alone on the floor in the corner like a bird on a nest.

Empty. 

Blank pages scratch my fingertips, like my unwritten history. 

Blurred. Vision obscured by lack of passion. 

Words roll, boil and stir. 

Fall like droplets of blood, scattered, without beat. draining life. 

Words shape my void. Bring verbs and color to the blank pages and dingy room. 

To create a world in which I understand and have talent too.

fill the blank pages.

Fill the nest. 

Poetry speaks

Its me in motion. 

Its the motion in me. Giving life creating color. 

Free. Full. 

Walking Prose