The cold wind shoots at me,
as I raise my pen in the air,
hoping that the black ink
seeps words easily on the page,
like air in cracks of dusty bones.
Nothing occurs, the ink dries
with brittle leaves crunching
and breaking under the softest touch.
Toxic anger flows through my veins,
producing vibes of funeral-like sorrow,
mixed with atelophobic disgust.
The pen shatters in my death grip,
sliver daggers shooting out in every direction,
as the cigarette smoke rises from the
cancerous stick between my fingers...
I will pick up again tomorrow,
and pray that the devil takes his curse.
Author notes
I'm currently having writer's block, so this is the best I could come up with, I hope you like it though..
Atelophobia: fear of imperfection
A contest entry
- Writer's Block by Desdmona.
600 points, ended March 27, 22 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me if there are any grammar/spelling mistakes?
Comments
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The last line is very powerful and this is relatable. Some of the diction is really good but at other parts it's lacking. Overall good job though. Good job and good luck. ~Des
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