I’m tired yet I want, no I’m driven to write to create. I’m in search of my id, my psyche for words but they fall on these death ears. Looking for a way out of this depression that has choked the life out of me.
I’m in a daze, it’s crazy the way my muse is elusive these days. I read my written work and it is like reading a stranger wondering around trying to find my way in this dark maze of nothingness. Where are those poetic words that escape me now as if my friends held captive in a prison?
How do I reach my muse, my best friend? I dial the phone but there’s no answer. Only the dead silence as I write upon this clueless paper that could care less if I am creative. It yearns only to feel the pressing of ink caressing it lovingly. Bringing forth life onto a once empty page.
But where are the words I crave to feel within my soul? Am I growing old and not able to create any more? The words that once flowed through my fingertips. Ink gushing out like a flood upon virgin snow white parchment. In a hurry to scribble rhymes and words that warm the heart and soul.
Where do my poems go when my muse lye’s asleep? Do they slip into someone else’s dreams into their psyche? Are they lost to me forever? Or will I write once again sweet words that dance like lovers upon a stage?
I beg thee do not leave me here to die a silent death of a Poet…
I am but an open journal
Still waiting to be discovered
Empty pages within to be filled
Desiring to feel your warmth upon
The black leather that binds me.
The soft caress of the wisdom
Of velvety words kissing.
Left drifting in the breeze
A melody without notes.
For my love affair with words
That dance through futuristic
Pages of time.
I am the tender sweetness like sugar
Of my yearning soul
With dreams yet to come alive.
I cry out to you awaiting your thoughts
Your desires, glimpses of your personality
Quilled upon the lines of my mold.
Yet I am but a baby naked, blowing empty
Pages Into the ebony starlit night.
Cold and alone not a letter insight
No scribbles of rainbows ink
Splattered upon my virgin parchment.
No stories to pass on in time.
I am awaiting the screaming orgasm of
My birthing into a new world
With visions and images that
Tower over me setting me free
No longer a virgin of words
Born again with pen in hand.
Pastel Colors of the wheel splattered
Upon my emptiness here within my mind.
I am but a thought away
From the history I’ve come from
The present I am living within
The future I have yet to see.
Just a visionary imagined or not,
I am the poet!