Self-Love

It is the age of narcissism
I sit losing myself
Burning my brain
Straining to write

A micro-verse
Blunt, artless, complete
Is left in amongst the ashes
Ribbons of blind words

Unspool like bandages
From the nib, scratching paper
Scratching the soul
That aches from torpid healing

8 comments

  1. I can see that ribbon unrolling, feel the scratches on my soul . . .

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I think most of us write to save ourselves, don’t you think, or is it to escape from ourselves. Feelings of lowness fades when we write. 🙂 Always. More or less.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Yes, it is saving, it is freeing, it is breathing

        Liked by 1 person

        1. Yep, even if nothing is left of the brain

          Liked by 1 person

  2. “Ribbons of blind words…”. Just perfect! Well done!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. And again. Right to the center of my heart. Blunt and raw and absolutely beautiful. But I don’t think You could be artless if Your life depended on it. Pretty much every molecule of Your Being is poetry and wonderful art. Thank You, Vera. 🙂

    Like

    1. Oh, Katy, you do wonders for one’s confidence. ❤

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Yay! I am so happy!!! 💖🤗☀️

        Like

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