I don’t write a poem anymore

These days
I don’t have to stare at the blank page
the poem thumps at my chest
like a stroke – waiting to fly to paper

I don’t write a poem
as much as I vomit it
There’s a pit in my stomach otherwise
floating, beating, kicking till I puke it away

The sick aren’t disgusted by their disease
poetry has become mine
no medicine can cure this, but
burping away in public – a loud secret – will do

I rarely visit empty white spaces anymore
everything and more is filled to the brim
with words – incoherent, sloppy, fat and plenty
waiting to turn into verses and chimes

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Rochi is a staff writer at Elite Content Marketer who relishes fresh poetry. She talks about books, poems and the troubles of everyday life on her website.
If you believe there is nothing that cannot be cured by some Mary Oliver poetry or a F.R.I.E.N.D.S episode, subscribe to her weekly newsletter

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