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.
Copyright © Andrew John | Year Posted 2017
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