Self-Love

March 29, 2018 · by Vera · in Poetry · 8 Comments

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

earthwalking13 · March 29, 2018 - 1:41 pm · Reply→

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

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1. todadwithlovepoetryandprose · March 29, 2018 - 1:51 pm · Reply→
  
  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.
  
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  1. earthwalking13 · March 29, 2018 - 1:59 pm · Reply→
    
    Yes, it is saving, it is freeing, it is breathing
    
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    1. todadwithlovepoetryandprose · March 29, 2018 - 2:02 pm ·
      
      Yep, even if nothing is left of the brain
      
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Bill · March 29, 2018 - 8:20 pm · Reply→

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

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forresting365 · March 30, 2018 - 8:38 pm · Reply→

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. 🙂

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1. todadwithlovepoetryandprose · March 30, 2018 - 8:43 pm · Reply→
  
  Oh, Katy, you do wonders for one’s confidence. ❤
  
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  1. forresting365 · April 1, 2018 - 12:12 pm · Reply→
    
    Yay! I am so happy!!! 💖🤗☀️
    
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