THE WORDS LAST Shivers crawl down my skin. They prick at my sensitive spine As my hand dictates the thoughts That are meant to mean something. Worry is picking at my brain. “Do better” it whispers as it peels back The thin layer of confidence My thoughts desperately cling to. The worn-down eraser punches the paper. It attacks my words And the thoughts that birthed them. My paper is blank. The only evidence of use Is the barely-there indent Of words destroyed by doubt and uncertainty.
Eitan Goldberg
73 Eitan Goldberg
