Not knowing what to say,
Not knowing what to write.
It has never been the issue.
Having too much to pour out,
That endless train of musing,
It goes on a journey
From too much truth to heartache.
Putting pen to paper is like,
A vacuum to the heart.
In the end there’s a dirty bag of poetry,
And a soul drained of all emotions.
It was another gloomy afternoon, as I set to work. Looking hard and deep for just about anything. Any frivolous theory, rhyme or word string. All at once, there it was, the faintest noise. It could have been the mid summer wind, for it had the grace and poise. Midst all the world’s ranting and chanting, I could hear them calling out to me. Out of breath, panting, I hear the words shouting out their plea. All these years of being taut and twisted seems to have left them tormented, being fashioned into ‘witty’ prose or ‘thoughtful’ poetry. Apparently, they dream of a life of ingenuity. They cried out to be relieved after ages of being besieged.
Let new verses trail your tongue and fresh lines be put to paper. Have your literary praises sung and creations left to savour.
They say this is where inspiration comes to die. Past the dreaded deadline, not a soul has ever made it. One after another they all went into a bottomless pit.. I asked myself, “Dear heart, what about you? Has all this hassle left you down and blue?” Fear not for there is always a choice. Venture out to tread new waters or go over the line another undead carcass. All of life spent in a philosophical stride only to end in literary suicide. Perhaps there is a way, another way. I could be the one to learn the trade and still stay in touch with reality and keep my soul. What if I could actually pull off inventing that role?