Womb. A poem.

I sit and watch
(I watch and stand)
Here in my
Womb (away from womb)

Where I am safe
(And sound)
Away from the anxiety
Of a thousand eyes (empty)

Black dog (by my side)
Guards me (warily)
'You won't get away'
He growls (with a smile)

My bed (wood and cotton, both lounge and bunk, sit and sleep, sleep and sit)
My weights (heavy metal bars and plates, engaging muscle, stamina and pain)
Guitars (mahogany, maple, rosewood, steel, tremolo and vibrato, liquid notes)
My books (precious sanity, shelves of glorious imagination untamed, unleashed)
Bible (faith, hope, love, commitment, wonder, toil, sanctification)
Laptop (lifeblood, link to the world wide network of lost, hungry, lonely souls,
fed on a steady voltage diet of creation, allusion, and self deprecation)

Here I sleep soundly
(Yet fitfully)
Waking up far too early
(And yet far too late)

Writing
And building dreams
(Within dreams)
Of immaterial reality

Here I live and breathe
(Dying inside)
Here in my
Womb (away from womb)

Another poem. So much for me saying I don't write poetry. It's almost all I've done this week. I think I've got a bit of a knack for it.

Like poetry? I'm starting to more and more. Here's a link to some more samples of mine – https://stevestillstanding.com/category/poetry/.