Wednesday, June 20, 2012

The poem I write, when the poetry's run out

My inklings would spring
from pens,
both black and blue,
wriggling and giggling
back at me,
still stuck, in between
my mechanical keys,
where the sounds sound cold
and clackety,
and no fantasy
creatures bound free.

1 comment:

manik sharma said...

Great poem...My poetry has run out of words of we wish those creatures were real....