Countless hours,
everything looks the same.
I've written this sentence over 14 times.
15.
16.
It's been a week since my artistic pride.
and in that week I've most certainly cried.
Tears should inspire, and flourish and bloom.
...but mine don't,
all they do, is bring me to doom.
But wait, what is this?
Those are words up the page.
Those verses, this stanza can end all my rage!
Perhaps I'll ignore it, no jinxing my feat.
Just write calm and steady, no excepting defeat.
Words now flowing freely, everything's alright,
but before I lose this magic, I shall say goodnight.
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 11:01 PM UTC
Countless hours,
everything looks the same.
I've written this sentence over 14 times.
15.
16.
It's been a week since my artistic pride.
and in that week I've most certainly cried.
Tears should inspire, and flourish and bloom.
...but mine don't,
all they do, is bring me to doom.
But wait, what is this?
Those are words up the page.
Those verses, this stanza can end all my rage!
Perhaps I'll ignore it, no jinxing my feat.
Just write calm and steady, no excepting defeat.
Words now flowing freely, everything's alright,
but before I lose this magic, I shall say goodnight.
I haven't been able to write in a week. I don't know what happened, but hopefully this pathetic little poem broke the ice once again. I better be able to write again soon. Somebody should give me a prompt...just saying.
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