Writers Block…

Sleep, never-ending conscious,

thunder, spray dashing against

the windowpane, in the distance

railroad cars, clang, clang, clang.

 

Sleep, gulls screaming float through

the air, wild and free, diving into

the white frothy waves, living without

a care.

 

Sleep, ghost trampling upon the mind

and soul, brushing shoulders with

death they surge across time wanting

their story told.

 

Sleep, wanting the body to relax, flip

right, flip left; the noise of the world

springs from every nerve, wistfully let

there be silence, calmness come back,

come back, come back.

 

Sleep, brooding, daggers in the back, rise,

dress, the night will never be soothing;

those words in the head keep moving,

mind in a rage sitting silently staring at

the blank page.

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

 

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