Mid-night I rise to pee, my feet shocked
awake by chill tile, the cold making
my arms like sandpaper.

Then I return to the warm cocoon bed
next to you, and melt again into sleep,

I’ve written nothing since mid-April, and I could not abide allowing May to pass without my writing something, however lame.

My encounter with a poetry forum inhibited my willingness to play with words, made me overly conscious. While poetry is a difficult craft, something to become skilled at, this awareness made me stop completely, rather than strive to improve. So here is a small poem.

Explore posts in the same categories: Aenigmas (My Poems), Humanities, Journal, Nature, Poetry

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