Drip Drop
The faucet is stripped, it won't shut off,a thorn in my side, pesky sand spurs.
Finally free is the flood of thoughts.
Pent up and choking they once were.
So enthralling is the gift of writing,
I once thought to write was absurd.
Why not just voice my opinion,
my volume is broken, so low the words.
Through writing, the mute button is fixed,
no longer hushed are my random spats.
A cavernous well overflowing and mixed,
can't let one single memory slip the cracks.
With the onslaught of joy brought venting,
I keep a keen eye on the faucet, drip drop.
Now I know what will keep me floating,
I break the faucets' handle, may it never stop.
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