It's Still Life

It’s Just Words

Someone once said that I was a prolific. As a writer. At the time, I thought it a compliment. Years later, I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Being prolific. It’s like standing in a bucket of your own sweat. Being overcome by noise. Your own noise. So you can’t hear your own voice. Your voice gets welled up behind pursed lips. Hands flung over your ears. And all the while your noise touches no one. Wordless. Yes, I shall be wordless. For a short while. Can you read my wordless noise in my comic despair?

Silence, old as sky
The wind pushes me along
I feed them words

Image by Unsplash. Written to prompt by dVerse Poets. Poetic form: Haibun. Shared with @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter   ©Misky 2021