You sit on your porch swing, miles away Making shapes out of streetlights Dancing in the dark Looking for remnants of a red sun Chasing after silver moonlight A pen in your hand Poetry on your tongue But the wind catches sight of you, Carrying the words away And everything remains unspoken
i sit and i sit trying to find the right words, not for you but rather for myself. i cannot describe in mere words what i feel or think. i lose ambition, lack the required motivation to write what i want to write.
Faltering plans An indecisive mind, Consistency in itself is an art An explosive start! Followed by; Fumbling fingers and idiotic ideas. What next? Do we pitstop like Hamilton? We were in pole position. Reassert, focus and keep on track. We are the drivers of our own Destiny...
I've been trying to keep up one poem a day. It's tough. I'm sure other writers can relate. This poem is about trying to keep that target going. A Formula 1 racing theme was completely unintentional and off the cuff, but seemed to work nicely. So it stayed and I kinda like the end result. I hope you do too.
I lay out the paper I pick up my pen I rattle my head again and again Yet nothing emerges, I draw a blank Just like this paper, all but blank This mind far from empty, my thoughts race Yet I can't get them down, can't find a pace This mind of mine, so sporadically poetic This mind of mine, equally pathetic.