PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Each Tuesday night I sit to write poems,
But instead I wind up with fragments and broken windows.
My life, year by year, purs across the paper.
I start by scanning my history book.
Book markers lead me to the pain that becomes poetry.
I lay, thinking, thought-drive in dim light as tears swell and burst into words.
Slowly I expose myself until the paper wears my layers.
Naked and alone I shiver and clutch my ribs.
I try to understand what makes me write what I do.
I remember,
Truth like a naggin wife
Truth of a painful life.
I finish each poem, no tear, because they all once were
With a nice little twisted phrase
Which makes light of dark
And acts as a tissue where my tears can dry.
I sigh, and wonder if a new pen would help.