Blindly I write these words
trying to find a rhythm
that can cure my head
of this verse infected syndrome.
No luck, only irritations
the syllables won't take shape
only rearrange themselves
and fall back into place.
The thought blurs a little
before the eye inside my mind
the contact lens of perception
creases & tears with time.
Can't seem to find the footing
that lets my pen walk on the white
teeter on the blue lines
and space the words just right.
Simple A B C B scheme
four lines before it's complete
stood up to the best of me
but still I can't compete .
Conception of a masterpiece
that will never have an end
only the idea of a finished product
that I've created with my pen.
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 10:24 PM UTC
Blindly I write these words
trying to find a rhythm
that can cure my head
of this verse infected syndrome.
No luck, only irritations
the syllables won't take shape
only rearrange themselves
and fall back into place.
The thought blurs a little
before the eye inside my mind
the contact lens of perception
creases & tears with time.
Can't seem to find the footing
that lets my pen walk on the white
teeter on the blue lines
and space the words just right.
Simple A B C B scheme
four lines before it's complete
stood up to the best of me
but still I can't compete .
Conception of a masterpiece
that will never have an end
only the idea of a finished product
that I've created with my pen.
- From Through Our Hands We Speak From The Heart