Is it any wonder how writers,
even so young –
their faces tight and bright with sun,
their eyes agleam –
how yet they still succumb
to emptiness?
Their faucets dripping dry;
an empty sky,
no air; nowhere to run,
no thoughts to dream?
Then, let the bullets fly.
Let blades invade the vital stream.
Let souls depart.
And in ascension seem
to find their heart








Brilliant work.
Thank you, Thomas!
You’ve surprised me with this one.
Very very good💋
Oh, I like to surprise you! Kisses back at ya!
You are so versatile in your writing. Love it Dk.
Thank you! I’m so glad you like it! Thanks for reading!
I think this poem can be interpreted in different ways. It can the literal death or the symbolic death as in writer’s block. And you have spoken of that beautifully! Well done “)
As always, I love your insight.
I like it. 🙂
I’m so glad, Mr. Dragon! Ironically, I was just on DUP and had a note from administration that they wanted to include this poem in the DUP Anthology under dark poetry. I happily gave them permission.
xoxo
I can see why. Good for you. 🙂
You should go over there and offer some of your poems. They were all amazing. I’m thinking they have waited a little late to start collecting pieces for this anthology. Lots of people have already closed their accounts.
Thank you. I actually did offer my poems there quite some time ago. I’ve since closed my account there.