I could make up some aesthetic intro about how the rain is falling & how the air tastes but they’ve read it all at least a thousand times, at least.
it’s “spring” in Kansas and it’s rainy & cold as **** for May not much poetic about it unless you’re like Shirley Manson I guess storms used to terrify me but now I adore them; transient and full of intensity & beautifully
I haven’t really tried to write in so long I had to force myself to pry open the dusty laptop -- only because I knew I’d be too impatient putting thoughts with pen onto paper
I get why Buk relied on his typewriter I just wish I had his mental fortitude to write through complete writer’s block at the edge of my wit’s end
the world has not improved, as we kind of all suspected the supreme court is dipping their toes into overturning roe. vs. wade
& all in the midst of the worst inflation I’ve ever seen (and a formula shortage) it’s all a stage and we’ve all been the puppets for years
but the fourth wall is coming down, albeit slowly.
There are sometimes just too many words, to use, to pick or say, we think we have them sorted, and then they slip away. We know the right ones and plan what ones to use, until we get all flummoxed, leaving ourselves confused. I used to be good with words, but they've vanished from my lips, if you're good with words yourself, please give me some tips!
A simple poem, lighthearted. Writing is slow these days - it's not just themes and topics, but the words don't flow as easily. This poem portrays every writers anguish as they soul search for some new creative flair!
the Words do not thrive Spoken with derision its the lack of ambition no will, no way, no drive
Hope to inspire. I try. All ideas have shriveled up, fallen away and died. Washed up, gone away with the tide. Wasting away, waiting here, biding my time. Pray the words come back, A treasure I seek to find.
Been craving for the words to come to me. Every thought and idea has been so elusive
cold autumn waters rushing its way underneath my feet weaving through toe to toe slicing hacking its way through the legs of my seat-- so naturally shining the reflected beams of sunlight knew how to pick which stream of which inch of which hairline of the river to show oh so clearly straight into my eyes-- this was exactly how i remembered the words flowing singing and dancing all so merrily in my mind. and yet --silence-- i sit and stew in the comfort of my room-- the fan spews nonesense whispering frigid sweet nothings it distracts me so i turn it off. the light shone too brightly showing me far far too much it annoys me so i turned it down. the natural sounds the allure of the wild the little chirps and peeps and the babble of the brooks i remember none of them sounding like the clicks and clacks that i hear with every press of my finger and every character i delete it discomforts me i took a deep breath. and another. closing my eyes i still saw a faint red through it's thin lid i tried to picture the same magical world i used to write in back when i was a bard and everything the light touches would be my kingdom my muse. and i smiled... all my vivid recollections the people and worlds i breathed life to the words that used to be so so alive it all felt empty so i opened my eyes and tried to write again--
and it turned out... subpar •.• sorry, it's heen two years! i promise my writing senses will thaw out eventually °^°