The Writer

She sits on the bed,
Chaos around her,
Clothed in yesterday’s grime,
With yesterday’s food on the floor,
Untouched.
And she is still,
As though tense,
Like a note, struck,
Hanging in the air,
Clear in definition,
But the string vibrating.
She is still,
Clear in definition as the note,
Her fingers moving over the keys,
And her eyes across the words.
It is as though
She creates music
With each word
That clicks into existence.

-A (@firstdraftpoet on twitter)

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2 comments

  1. assortmentbox · February 8, 2015

    Lovely image!

    Liked by 1 person

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