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just-alexPoems
I ran out of verses They are all... spent Of things of love and life All things are... said And is there a saddest creature That a man who wishes to write but can´t? Words trapped inside him like a prison My own jailor, without the key in my hand And they wish for freedom To escape the torment and the silence inside But in that silence they die They die... The words die... They die alone... Every death a cut... To the mind... To the will... To the soul... To the mind and the soul, the guilt that was brought If only I could have written it before! I could have done more! So many stories! So many feelings! No more... And the corpses of words And the messages they had Rot to form a mire A putrid, fetid swamp Maybe something can be salvaged Yes, maybe something of worth lays hidden in the muck Is it worth rescuing Or let it fester some more? And the mud keeps growing Swallowing everything of worth And it saps the will of writers Like a pipe with dirt is clogged And it´s blotted, and it´s roars wishing to be free But again, they are denied their wish Warped of the thing they used to be This words... They are no longer verses... They are just ****
0
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 8:05 PM UTC
I ran out of titles
I ran out of verses They are all... spent Of things of love and life All things are... said And is there a saddest creature That a man who wishes to write but can´t? Words trapped inside him like a prison My own jailor, without the key in my hand And they wish for freedom To escape the torment and the silence inside But in that silence they die They die... The words die... They die alone... Every death a cut... To the mind... To the will... To the soul... To the mind and the soul, the guilt that was brought If only I could have written it before! I could have done more! So many stories! So many feelings! No more... And the corpses of words And the messages they had Rot to form a mire A putrid, fetid swamp Maybe something can be salvaged Yes, maybe something of worth lays hidden in the muck Is it worth rescuing Or let it fester some more? And the mud keeps growing Swallowing everything of worth And it saps the will of writers Like a pipe with dirt is clogged And it´s blotted, and it´s roars wishing to be free But again, they are denied their wish Warped of the thing they used to be This words... They are no longer verses... They are just ****
#writersblock#writing#words#poetry
just-alex
Written by
just-alex
27/M/Veracruz, Mexico
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 8:05 PM UTC
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