Sometimes i stand

looking at my door,


with my still hand            gripping the knob,


squeezing it tight

until the blood in my hand

presses up to the skin;


and i wonder 

what do i need to say

to myself

to turn the knob 

and open the door

©2018 by Terry Writes Things. Proudly created with

This site was designed with the
website builder. Create your website today.
Start Now