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.
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?