Sunday, October 14, 2007
WRITER'S BLOCK
I seem bereft of things to write,
Imagination seemingly tired of flight,
Words stilled in mid-flow,
While life seems to weary grow.

Scenes flitter, flicker, fly,
While I am left behind to sigh,
Of stories lost beyond recapture,
Like delightful people that were.

Mysterious creatures wink and prod,
To follow the very steps they trod,
And then turn and disappear,
Leaving you with a strange fear.

Circles seem a weary shape,
Now that for nights you�ve lain awake,
Your head going around in them,
Treading paths that seem the same.

I�ve lost count of the time,
For which I�ve not earned a dime,
For nothing new suggests itself,
And ideas remain firmly on the shelf.

Languorous, lazy, lackadaisical,
I grow as my options I mull,
Perhaps that talent has abandoned ye?
That is a possibility, I say.

A struggling artist might suggest romance,
But in the real world he lacks a chance.
It might seem all fair and delightful,
Only living it is mighty dull.

And so, by desperation driven,
For food is a pre requisite of men,
To rhyme I've tried to taper,
While pouring words out on paper.
posted by Clezevra @ 5:09 AM  
1 Comments:
  • At October 14, 2007 at 9:21 AM, Blogger slartybartfarst said…

    Of course the vast majority of writers in the past could only have their work appraised by a very few close friends and long suffering relatives, unless the were actually good enough to get into print. But, I'm sure you'll admit there is a real thrill in knowing that whether they leave a comment or not other people are reading your stuff and when a new visitor leaves a comment, that is so gratifying, unless it's insulting of course. Doesn't happen often. Take care. C

     
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