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Katie May 21
I strive to create,

Yet my canvas remains clean.

Curse this temporary fate;

As an artist, I feel second-rate.
141
J Latham May 4
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


unpredictable


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.



I wonder what he would have had to say about it.

enough, I’m sure.
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!

Copyright ©️Joshua Reece Wylie 2022
Katie Mar 23
Sometimes my words flow easily and free
Yet this past week I've been stunted and vapid.
I find myself disappointed in me,
Wishing for a recovery too rapid.

My words have been small, I'll admit that
But they're all still words that I mean.
Even if my poetry is flat,
I hope my heart can be seen.
82
Ronney Mar 16
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
cleann98 Jan 15
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 °^°
LONDIN Dec 2021
Without alcohol,
It's hard to numb the thought
That I might not ever write as authentically
As I did when I was drunk.
Francie Lynch Nov 2021
I have stared
Far too long
At this blank page.
I've come to the hard realization,
Like a refugee raft,
This poem won't write herself.
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