On the obstacles of writing


... and these Lianas, oh, but they hurt...
for they are full of thorns, I feel them...
they keep me from the ground, they hang me,
they grasp my chest... my back, like green belts.
When I breathe, they pierce my flesh, deeply.
They probe into my skin, looking for my veins.
They are trying to discover who I am.
I am so not telling them. So not telling. Them.
They would fail to see. 
I shall silence myself just one more moment
and the sharp end will no longer be with me. 
Oh, Phigalia, Pitys, Erato, Dryope...
How cruel it is the feeling of abandonment
"On the Plethora of Dryads"...

NR (20/05/2013)

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