02-14-2018, 10:47 AM
Hi, everyone! This is my first post here so we'll see how it goes. I tend to be my own toughest critic. I've been writing poetry off and on for about 20 years now and I'm hoping to publish my first full volume this year.
BLANK PAGE
I sat down at my desk tonight,
and found I had no words to write.
No message that I could convey,
nor a funny or witty thing to say.
No nostalgic tale of days gone by,
or wondrous adventure on mountains high.
No princesses, kings or warrior knights,
No ice, no fire, no epic fights.
No clever yarn about my youth,
or a tactful dose of truth.
No sagas of love or burning rage,
not a single thing to grace the page.
In fact, it came as quite a shock
as I'm just not one for writers block!
It's disappointing because everybody knows,
I'm quite the man when it comes to prose.
But on this night, at this desk,
I'm so far from my very best.
I ache and I scream and I fight and fight,
but I just can't find the words to write.
I have the pen, I have the ink,
"Come on now, man! You've got think!"
There's an easy way to break the curse,
just find a line, a rhyme, a verse.
Nothing creative bursts from my head,
It's just awash with fog instead.
My head is nodding, my vision fading,
what little hope I had? Degrading.
And this barrenness my soul will reap,
as I lay me down to sleep.
I can only hope, as I retire,
that I do not think of things too dire.
Perhaps when I wake, in mornings light,
I'll finally find those words to write.
BLANK PAGE
I sat down at my desk tonight,
and found I had no words to write.
No message that I could convey,
nor a funny or witty thing to say.
No nostalgic tale of days gone by,
or wondrous adventure on mountains high.
No princesses, kings or warrior knights,
No ice, no fire, no epic fights.
No clever yarn about my youth,
or a tactful dose of truth.
No sagas of love or burning rage,
not a single thing to grace the page.
In fact, it came as quite a shock
as I'm just not one for writers block!
It's disappointing because everybody knows,
I'm quite the man when it comes to prose.
But on this night, at this desk,
I'm so far from my very best.
I ache and I scream and I fight and fight,
but I just can't find the words to write.
I have the pen, I have the ink,
"Come on now, man! You've got think!"
There's an easy way to break the curse,
just find a line, a rhyme, a verse.
Nothing creative bursts from my head,
It's just awash with fog instead.
My head is nodding, my vision fading,
what little hope I had? Degrading.
And this barrenness my soul will reap,
as I lay me down to sleep.
I can only hope, as I retire,
that I do not think of things too dire.
Perhaps when I wake, in mornings light,
I'll finally find those words to write.