This Is Not A Poem Poem by Melissa Vitiello

This is not a poem,

but...

an anxious and antsy

feeling consumes me

for I want to be

dispensed from my

glorious box for the night.

I stare at a blank document_

My esthetic and fertile

thoughts have came to

a cease and I wish

to retire for the night.

I gaze out the window.

Grey clouds form on the

horizon.

On this warm Spring

night, the pure rain

drops fall fast and

hard.

I can hear the

water clashing on

the tin roof.

Neon white strikes

of lightening appear

like lost souls trying

to find a home, begging

to be let in.

Like the words

for my creations.

Comfty in my silky

blue recliner, I stare

up at the stained white

ceiling - another drag

toked,

another sip of coffee

sipped,

and another word

not typed nor a

thought expressed.