Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Appearing for a limited time:

A little poem I wrote.


On Writing

What do I know?
I didn’t invent language
I can’t answer
For the way it rains
Clears the air, puddles in places
Generally, I avoid it with
An umbrella of busyness
Or I fall in, unwillingly
Wet and uncomfortably cold
Am I supposed to show this to people?
The aftermath of a cloudburst
In my head?
What can they know
About riding out storms
Hunkered down
With a flimsy keyboard
For protection
They read words
To laugh or cry, to relax
They want user friendly words
To dream or forget
What do I know?
I write words to survive.

5 comments:

Melody said...

I love your poem, Tamara. You definitely have a gift with words. Looking forward to more samples!

Valerie Ipson said...

I love it! And to think you just whipped it out that morning.

Jennifer Lovin Williams said...

I love this poem. Than you so much for sharing it. It is amazing how much I can relate.

J.M. Clark said...

I love this poem! It really captures the wonder-and the insecurity--of being a writer.

Tamara Passey said...

Thank you ladies!

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