the feeling of art bleeds from my nail beds, plump from euphoria, drunk off wine that's red. i feel electricity within my hands. some have only known it through ***'s command. my joints swell with anticipation, the poet's tongue knows no abnegation. ready to send life through these tired veins. let emotion take these fraying reins, and pluck these tendons like piano strings. hear the way the keyboard clings with each stanza, each brushstroke. what suffering could they evoke? i feel my blood pump through me. pelted by the rhythmic breathing of the sea. these feelings crashing into jagged rocks. breathe in this break from writer's block.
I'm trying to be bubbly But my mind it keeps mumbling Then my stomach starts rumbling I try to ensure you I'm serious Yet the words fall from my mouth, delirious
The pen marks the page Only scribbles remain Unsure what to do So I sit in disdain Need to erase all the pain Maybe dance in the rain .... It all conflicts in my brain!
Why can't I write? Is it in spite? Was poetry a mere mechanism to cope, Is there no hope?
Maybe I'm full of it Nearly at the end of my rope, How can words express When I'm not a mess Outside of the nothingness, What even is happiness Still learning, still yearning Excited for what's next Maybe that's all it is.
A poem made from scraps from a time of writer's block, which coincided with a time of happiness.