This poem is a true story about me. I wrote a masterpiece in 1998 and didn't write anything again until 2016 or 2018. Looking back all I can say "my pen went dry."
Death of My Ink After a masterpiece that I was proud to write no poetic words flowed from my pen out right I could not ink the description of a desert dry and worse yet had no mindset to try thought I had to be conflicted enough to use words to scream out in pain I had no arsenal to name the sea a quilt of blue Writing had come to a screeching halt and not penning poetry was like food without salt But just as a cloud hung over a little boat a storm raged over my drink ink moat. My ink did not have bicycle wheels nor did it chase me wearing high heels I had no idea if ink could have a revival it was dead I assumed no survival.
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
