...The story of a girl in London, England


Sonnet 28


I cannot write again, that which I’ve writ.

I cannot write of happiness or pain.

I cannot write of love or lack of it.

I cannot write my thoughts—they’re all the same!

I cannot write it down, it’s all been said.

I cannot write a feeling, false or true.

I cannot write, there’s nothing in my head!

I cannot write a color, tint or hue.

Perhaps I simply cannot write at all.

I’ve literally banged against the wall.

And what is writing, really, after all?

The words, the words, they tumble and they fall

About my feet like clots of dirt and loam.

I say good night, good riddance to this poem.

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