Write I say, but my pen is dry.
Write I say again, louder, but the
pencil sits dull in front of me.
Write, I scream, but the keyboard
has turned upside down.
There is no outlet for the thoughts
crowding into corners of my mind.
My eyes see the world and flick away
to another place. I taste the world’s
offerings but my tongue says bland.
My ears hear the whispers and horns,
bleats and barks, but in my head
all is silent. There is no love no hate
only a shrug of worldly shoulders.
Everything I have, everything I own,
everything I have ever thought or
ever will think, is stowed away in a
bag tossed carelessly over those worldly
shoulders, bumping along as it moves away.
I can’t cry.
Author’s Comment: My much-loved mother came to live with us in 2011 and stayed for a year and a half before suddenly passing away. When she died, my pen went dry and my heart just couldn’t find the way out of my sorrow. This poem reflects the sadness and lack of life that had been devouring me since her death, before I finally realized that I am still here and have some more life to live and words to share.
Bio: Annie Pott was born in Duluth Minnesota, lived in Southern California and Florida, and now South Carolina. She has been involved with the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute for nearly a decade.