SUNDAY IS FOR POETRY: The Writer's Milieu

Can a writer be so blind
That not a word of herself is understood
Afraid and paralyzed to see further than her pen?

Strewn papers of genius
Lay around for years
Unseen only by dust collected
And deep frown marks
Rejecting words and sentences
That run on, trying to escape
The hand in a catcher's mitt.

**written by petra michelle*

http://whoseroleisitanyway.blogspot.com/