I haven’t written
And I know why
All my words have evaporated from my veins
leaving behind merely stains
of what insight i once utilized
to give rise to my art
but lately i don’t know where to start
i’m lost in this maze
drenched in a craze
drained of the thing that is supposed to define me
i don’t know what i can do
if i cannot create poetry
can i be?
or see?
evolve into more than flesh and property?
make myself free
of the anxieties and dearth of variety
that has emerged in my mundane existence?
for everytime i attempt to write
i’m embracing an internal resistance
that is restraining me
from refraining these
thoughts crashing within my skull
ideas escape my memories
but then they diminish
far before i can finish a poem
like this
do you get the gist?
the writer within me is rustling in the mist
so i must grasp these lines in my fist
so the lingering poet within
can spin inside my soul
a few more cycles
so i can sustain or recycle
a bit of inspiration
that has not passed its expiration date
for i cannot wait for some new beauty
to arrive on my doorstep
or the welcome mat of my heart
it takes too long to reboot
so i can’t delay and restart
i must depart from the current obligations
and deprivations of my reality
escape pathetic fallacies
and plain desperation
and write my way to a new destination.


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