beautiful words- less so
once I catch them
tangled in a thread of thought
hooked on Cupid’s bow
dragged back by reluctance
until they drown
I don’t even know how to write anymore.
I used to swim in this ocean of words and ideas.
Now it’s just sand.
Slipping through my fingers.
Fishing for my muse
but he eludes me.
A futile quest to catch
Other times they gush in torrents.
He teases me, I’ll warrant;
lets them drop into my lap,
words, fast & fat.
He commands the waters
but I will catch him for my tea
& feed my famished poetry.
Another old Vss365 from Twitter. Prompt word was muse. Does anyone else feel this feast or famine, when some poems write themselves and others can't be grasped?
A blank mind
A blank page
But an open mind
Can open doors
For new words
Must learn to use the empty space
To create within the void
An open mind
A bold heart
The true liberators
The first time I wrote a poem was pure brokenness, where sadness became my relief, and the pain who has crushed me and tore me to pieces gave me comfort. But when I met you, I tried to change my genre into something blissful, something permanent; no more writings about my dark days and empty feelings because knowing you were here beside me and the overwhelming feeling I’d never thought would put me at ease became my inspiration to make something peculiar out of my familiarity. But my hands betrayed me, my mind was in knots that I couldn’t seem to follow. I ran out of words. It felt like a complete derailing of thought where despair defeated me as I could feel this wasn’t for me and had to give up the poetry inside me.
The first time I wrote a poem was pure brokenness and today I’m writing a poem out of it, because the day you leave me drives me into deep-seated words, my hands are dying to be written until my fingers bleed. Things before I was certain of turns blurry, but the only thing I’m sure of is that creating art today gets back my longing into poetry.
I stopped being a poet when you arrived,
Today, I’m back at it.
Sweet nothings bore me.
Secrets shared in the first ten minutes
are worth less than the effort it takes me
to hear them.
So say something new, in words
that burn my skin when they touch.
Must try harder.
muse, mate. you're slacking.
I do not know what it was that I thought to say in this.
This that is, or was, supposed to be a "poem" - I suppose.
Not one of genuine notoriety,
Or of one that really has any other meaning
Than words have by themselves.
Is that this will be a poem of no genuine worth;
If read in passing,
Will mean nothing in particular.
One that is not extraordinary;
Not full of sensual words that evoke a reaction.
Not this one.
I'm simply writing the words that come naturally to me.
These are the words that create creativity;
But these are also the words that are not very ...
If rearranged and given time
This could be convincing enough
To be that which would be called a poem;
But, for now,
I will leave this -
Words without feeling;
Words without flow and meaning.
For THAT is what THIS is.
Just read for what it is lol.
© Shane Leigh