Early Morning
EARLY MORNING
Early morning.
Darkened skies.
All alone with the tears I cry.
I am stuck in this awful mode
feeling alone with the mother lode.
How can it be?
Why can’t I see
the wasteland that is me?
I try to write but the words
they run, they run into the morning sun.
Free me Muse from icy bonds.
Free me Muse to feel the sun.
I lock myself behind the door
looking for the evermore.
Write hand Write! Paint arm Paint!
Spill the stain and work the ink.
Troubled soul that I am
make me humble before the stand.
Easel, my easel rigid in form
hold my victim while I learn.
Mighty pen set me free.
Mighty pen release me.
Finally the work is done,
this solemn work just begun,
this early morning poem.
Another battle that I’ve won.
Another poem for my chums.
Copyright © Bryan Griffin | Year Posted 2014
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