Not
Reading verses and hoping
one day soon, very soon,
to commit more words to paper
(to screen, rather, we must say),
I strive for the thought
that will spark and ignite the muse
but have to content myself
with writing this poem
about not writing a poem.
Why the drought?
Why the emptiness, the void?
I am free of emotion,
or so it would seem.
No spark, no ignition, no muse,
no dream to lure me, even,
into a sea of vague ideas,
for there is no sea, are no ideas.
I have reached Line Nine again, so can go.
Post Comments
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.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
