This heat has sapped the life from me.
I feel much like that slack dish rag
that's hanging o'er the sink wrung dry--
a listless blob sans energy.
My muscles sag, my limbs won't move.
My languid flesh can't be my own.
Light-headed I seek chair or couch.
There I repose, recline, lay prone.
Artistic creativity
is stifled by this ceaseless heat.
Composing any type of verse
becomes a grueling, futile feat.
For I can't think, put words to thoughts.
All that I feel I can't express.
What's in my head's now apple sauce--
an incoherent sloppy mess.
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Writing Prompt |
Write a feelings poem, 20 lines maximum, rhyming preferred. Everyone is encouraged to vote. |
Author Notes
Artwork is courtesy of Google images.
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