Published Thu Feb 07, 2019 | Posted in Poetry | By Linda Jenkinson |
I wish that at eight
It wasn't too late
For the poetry to rise to the top
That the ideas, that woke me at two and four,
Hadn't ground to a stop.
That the dreams which seemed so reachable
Remained with me
Fresh and new.
But alas, instead,
When I lift my head,
They run into the bed
And are forever hidden
Please share your thoughts in the comments below.
This thread has been closed from taking new comments.