My muse has forgotten me,
left me in limbo,
alone
with a pencil
and pain with no name.
I’m impotent,
empty.
My words have escaped me.
They flow from friends’ fingers,
so fickle,
they trickle
down cheeks ,
plop on paper,
in poem shaped stains.
I watch them in wonderment,
wishing they’d come to me.
Craving the comfort
of newly formed things.
But my muse has forgotten me.
Silent, she flies from me.
I watch from beneath her,
and envy her wings.
2 comments:
I watch from beneath her,
and envy her wings.
Recurring theme much?
For someone with such glorious poetic wings as urs you really shouldn't be envying others'.
The only reason they taunt you with their's is jealousy.
Craving the comfort of newly formed things - love this it really evokes the fickle nature of how poetry writing can be sometimes. When it's coming thick and fast you think it's wonderful but then when nothings coming you dont care anymore and just pray for anything at all to come to you.
so fickle,
they trickle
down cheeks ,
plop on paper,
in poem shaped stains
This is so you - all weepy and Lacrymosical (see how I adjectived up that noun for ya? - doubt it makes sense but when in rome lol)
x
They flow from friend's figers so fickle they trickle?
Is this a subtle little swipe at mr starlight there with his constant barrage of poems perchance? I wouldnt call them fickle though.
And with the gift you have here theres no way you are muse-less
I wish i could write like this x
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