March 14th, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor

Image result for antique empty page and pen

In my cache of poems

I draw one out

And consider its worth,

Or worthiness.

Finding neither

(I am my own best critic)

I wonder at my inability

To express the simplest

Of emotions,

But there lies the difficulty.


Why must everything be said?

Shall I paint the eyes then instead?

Can the brush exude

The depth of soul

I wish to expose?

Why wish it?

Why must everything be laid bare?


Hush, don’t say a word.

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