Words, stories of any kind have just deserted me of late. I want to want to write, but I feel like a dry well. Once good for something, but now just creaky, parched, and kind of an eyesore someone should raze out of its misery.
I sat down to write a blog post, and ended up writing something pretty foreign to me – a poem. I like it, though, and I think it perfectly expresses how I feel.
Untitled
Maybe I’m not supposed to have the words
Maybe it’s the price I paid
For the baby in my womb
Frustrated, silent and unsaturated
Familiar friends, my verbs and nouns
They skirt the room, eluding me
I wish my urge to chase was stronger
But toys and books and children’s clutter
Calls to me with siren song
Oh housewife of yore
That twit you swore you’d never be
Looks back at you in shock
I can’t relent
I wouldn’t take it back
For all the pictures words would paint
My child’s cry is more
