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