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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls, from my conscience as it spoke contemptible remarks aimed at me. What shame those words delivered. "Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver, mimicking trembling lips of a child in fear? You dare call yourself a poet, but you're nothing more than a joke." Guilt, the culprit that tunnels my mind as my passion flower shrivels on its vine. An empty heart has stripped my soul of its craving need to write. It's my own foolish notion that causes me to shiver. I weep over my planted seedlings, their mournful cries I hear. Abandoned by their mother who begot them, and for this I'm filled with remorseful regret. That mockery invaded my aching breast, when it ridiculed me as a fool; "A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task, should put down the quill and live in disgrace." There is no saving grace for me. No nourishment for my verses to thrive. My heart is broken and lost in memories. Without the will to live, how will it survive? It only beats to keep me alive. Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered dying of thirst, drying up in a field of grief, and I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit as time elapses and I watch them expire. I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines and must retire. I've watered the seeds of my self doubt with salted sweat from my furrowed brow; over fertilized them with tears of frustration. I do not seek salvation or redemption. Damnation will out. My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek. I have not a drop to quench their thirst no morning dew, nor afternoon shower to give my wilting buds a reprieve in relief. I've tried to save them all, but half-hearted attempts were all in vain. Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain and suffering loss. All hope is gone. My fear is that I cannot express myself in what was once an emotional voice. No wonder my pages remain barren and blank, except for the blotches of spilled ink. My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay. I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine, setting it free and pray that it may be forgiven for my folly, for I've given it no choice. I've only myself, this bereft poet, to thank. Written January 24th, 2021 Judged N/A 2/22/21 Contest Open Poetry !
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