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


  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. 🙂


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

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Yay! I am so happy!!! 💖🤗☀️


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