Silence fills the room.
Sound has been sucked out.
People sketching their
imaginations on paper
in word art.
Thinking, how can I
find something worthy?
What am I doing here?
How do you know
when your life
is where it is
supposed to be?
Is it what I make it,
or make it what I want?
Am I able to be
a writer?
Friday, September 28, 2007
Blocked | Celeste Johnson
Posted by I Love Food at 7:22 AM
Labels: CJ, poem, writers block
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