Tender Ash In Shaky Hands

These iris blades and things I pen

both maintain a sharp point; a realm

of disenchantment and disheartened

encounters where one’s soul-self

is embedded between the lines. A

question of my character stands

on end, and I’ve no strength

left to defend. Take my eggshell

house and paint your hubris

walls with the color of egg-matte ache.

I’ve loved and lived and laughed

and penned it exactly that way.

What is a poem? What are these words?

And all they contain?

I am the poem. I am the literary ache.

I am self-maintained chaos,

combustible tears, and pliable

flesh for looters to take. It’s

okay. At the end of the day

I have this—

this empty page

and all the vivid imagery

it contains. My favorite iris

is in bloom. And this season

has come and gone

all too soon.

© Grace Black

Poetry Month continues, and this is Day 15 of NaPoWriMo for me. Today’s prompt was to write a poem that addresses itself in some way.

30 poems in 30 days. Do you dabble in word play as well? Let’s create 30 in 30.

Love and Ink,



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