Where Is This Place
Where is this place that I find myself in
Was I snatched by a gun toting gang
I don’t recall anything quite so extreme
Since my poetic musings began
It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last
The rhyme thieves have grabbed me before
What tricks did they use to silence my muse?
She lies, bound and gagged, on the floor
Perhaps I can rouse her by plain simple thought
I try hard to think her alive
But all my endeavours bring little reward
She stirs but she doesn’t revive
And so I sit here with a screen stark and white
The scheme that my typing app uses
My mind cannot cut through the bindings that tie
My muse has blown all of her fuses
How many words in this language I speak
Count the similes and metaphors
But this fog is a frog, if it spoke it would croak
For it can’t speak that language of yours
My flesh and my blood feel perfectly sound
But my mind is all darkness and shrouds
I laugh and I cry in appropriate moments
Yet a yarn simply cannot be found
So this is the place that I find myself in
Though I haven’t been kidnapped or ‘took’
This room and this house and this world looks the same
But it’s too grey to warrant a look
These few words I’ve written to highlight my plight
I’ve written with scant hesitation
For writing about having nothing to write
Frankly, is blind desperation
Copyright © Terry Flood | Year Posted 2024
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