Posted in art, poetry, writing


Mood  I told her how I’d wanted to write, could feel the excess of emotion on the cusp of brimming over the side of my too full ink jar. I knew that if I tried to cap it that black would leak out and stain my table with unfiltered tears, a mess of thoughts spilled without coherency. I knew that bottling doesn’t work, that if I don’t direct my fears and bruises into lines then my ink jar will shatter, exploding debris all over my face. But I don’t feel like writing, I told her, I don’t want to face those energies. She grabbed my shoulders and pulled me in, That’s your poem, she caressed, that the exasperation of a day stole the words right out of you.


Poetry and music.

15 thoughts on “Mood

  1. Somewhere a heart bleeds for eyes seen on a screen, a spirit so vibrant it’s forced to live in a bottomless well of indellible ink, a soul as triumphant as time and grace itself, in love with the thought of limitless passions and never ending, ever growing soul-mating . A soul arrogant for a fleeting minute at being outed by the face staring back from the other side of a bureau’s triple mirror, understanding reflection.

Leave a Reply to dougstuber Cancel reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s