I’m right. I think
like this grinding ill
I find I’m in.
It’s this silly mind
I’m in; blinding crisis
binding criticism.
Diminishing in dignity- it’s simply dispiriting.
I didn’t flinch in finding this;
I didn’t fix this girl I’m in
I lift grimly, hiding it.
I’d hitch- it is illicit,
This inky pitch I’m swimming in.
It isn’t iridic,
It is infinity.
Infinity which is killing this lilting
sickly lyricist.
This split wrist is
spilt twilight, whilst
this trill still sings
in dizzy winds,
writhing in this wilting
wintry wish
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About the Creator
Elizabeth Nabret
I am a lover of the written arts, and think that expression through word is important. I am a teacher, a poet, a lover, an ally, a musician, and story teller, and I will search for and try to write stories that inspire.
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