By Ann Chiappetta
Most days it is present
On the days it is absent
Touching the creativity fails, dispersed
Into me, whispering within, like
Veins packed with scribbled, microscopic cells
Alphabet infused molecules jumbled
Twisting and turning liquid
Overflowing with brain food I’ve
No chance of catching.
What can I say? Some writing days are better than others. One good thing that helped me write this poem was being able to end a writing-related gig I found no longer provided the inspiration I needed to support my writing style. A pressure has been alleviated and I feel much better. Being a Pisces is complicated. ♓
I learned what I don’t want to write and what type of writing gig could be more enriching for me.
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