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If I could no longer write poetry, I'd have no need of hands, 
nor eyes weary from weeping, a heart that lies broken, 
and a soul dead from mourning.       ~ by poet


I heard the faint echoes of scurrilous snarls, 
from my guilty conscience as it spoke.
Contemptible remarks rightly aimed at me.
What truthful shame those words delivered.

"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking the trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet, 
but you are nothing more than a joke."

Culpability, the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passionflowers shrivel upon tender vines.
A cold and empty heart has stripped my soul 
of its hunger and thirst, its craving need to write.

It's my own piffling notion of being a poet
that causes me to shiver. Yes, of that I am aware.
I weep over the planted fragile seedlings.
Their mournful cries for help, I hear quite well.
Abandoned by their mother, I who begot them, 
and for this I am filled with remorse and regret.

The mockery invades my aching breast,
as it ridicules me as a dupe by saying,
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task,
should put down the quill and live in disgrace."

I'm afraid there is no saving grace for me. 
No nourishing fodder for my verses to thrive.
My heart has been broken and is lost in memories.
Without the will to write, how will it survive?
It only beats in rhythm to keep me half alive.

Rows of sprouted thoughts have begun to wither,
dying and drying up in a field of plowed grief
while I, their neglectful Sower, helplessly sit idle.
As time elapses, I mourn, watching them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of my unrhymed lines
and see only ashes flying and embers fading
in the dark where eyes cannot witness my sorrow.

I've over watered the seeds of self-doubt
with salty sweat trickling from furrowed brow.
I've over fertilized them with tears of frustration.
It's damnation I seek, not salvation or redemption. 
Self-condemnation and torment will out.

My ink well of impetus seems to have sprung a leak
or a new watering hole I should have found.
I've not a drop with which to quench their thirst,
no refreshing morning dew, nor afternoon shower 
to give my wilting stems hope of reprieve or relief.
I tried to save them, but half-hearted attempts 
were all in vain. I've caused them too much pain.

Not one more rhyme can I rescue while filled 
with disdain and suffering from this tragic loss. 
All hope is gone, and my fear is that I cannot clearly 
express myself in an emotional voice anymore.

No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the horrid Rorschach blots I've spilled.
My parchment lies in state, shrouded and entombed
in pages waiting to decay. There's nothing more to say
except for me to whisper in the dark from this hell...

"I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and pray I may be forgiven my folly.
I've been given no choice except to blame myself ~
this bereft poet whose hand once wrote in verse.
No longer is my poetry worthy of being read."
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