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These days the well of ideas runs dry
I can no longer lower my bucket
And bring it up full
With enough to satisfy your thirst for creativity
And to satisfy my thirst to create
Yet I am chained to my commitment
To bring you this daily offering
So I turn to the dry stones of my well
And try to squeeze water from them

I hope this mere drop is enough
11 lines, 310 days left.
hal Dec 2020
The new year should bring
New inspirations but I am
Feeling quite lost.

Spinning on delicate in a
never ending cycle of my
Washing machine.

Repetition at its finest.
New would be nice I reckon.
Emily Nov 2020
i ache to feel inspired.
long for the thoughts and feelings i once knew.
let my mind consume itself with possibilities.

i ache to feel important.
to know my words are devoured,
by someone with a fragile heart and mind.

i want to run away with myself.
run away to that place of opportunity.
where i glow brighter than the stars,
and emit warmth stronger than the sun.

i ache to feel that way again.
that important kind of way.
where i am more than just my body.
where i am my thoughts, my feelings.

There is not much to write
These days
My mind on an uninspired escape

The thoughts scarce and redundant
Disinterested words
Wander off for a sea-scape

Sure there is enough beauty in this world
Yet to be explored
Limited my imagination and views today
Lost Sep 2019
Under the blankets
Never shaking them off
In the depths of my mattress
Needing more than this
Stuck in my bed
Perpetually in a fog
Interested in nothing in particular
Remembering that there’s no point in trying
Every day when eventually I’ll just be
The name of these type of poems is totally escaping me right now, but the first letter of each line spells out “uninspired” when you put them together. Not really a good poem honestly, but it’s all I can offer right now. I feel so drained of creativity.
annh Jul 2019
You build your nest of pretty words,
Sly threads of verbiage,
Plucked from outworn phrases,
Secondhand sentiments and frayed metaphors.

A thorny simile, a faded pink ribbon,
Of rhetoric woven with silky streamers;
A warp and weft of fond and found,
Borrowed references and stolen verses.

You recycle the shining heart,
Of another’s penmanship,
Modelling it into a tarnished,
Uninspired and untitled composition

‘I get a lot of big ideas, and occasionally I actually come up with one myself.’
- Bauvard, Some Inspiration for the Overenthusiastic
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