I used to tell stories.
Sleepy little boy bedtime stories.
Silly passing time on boring train ride stories.
Scary vampire monster bat stories.
Sexy pillow talk lover stories.
I used to tell stories.
I used to write poems.
Now,
every so often,
I capture a story
by clicking a button.
But mostly
I fumble
silently
in the dark.
Sleepy little boy bedtime stories.
Silly passing time on boring train ride stories.
Scary vampire monster bat stories.
Sexy pillow talk lover stories.
I used to tell stories.
I used to write poems.
Now,
every so often,
I capture a story
by clicking a button.
But mostly
I fumble
silently
in the dark.
4 comments:
Love those words ...
I feel sad reading this, because I feel the same way. I just posted I'm looking for readers, hoping to jump start new writing, is the reason, because. It's there, somewhere, I know it.
Your poem is a story. I love it. And it reminds me of telling stories to my little boy, who is not little, any more.
Lovely, lovely poem, especially the last stanza, but so sad.
There's a lot of poignancy and yearning in this.
Well done, and something almost any writer would be able to identify with.
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