Drivel
The drivel I write tangles itself
in by brain. It weaves silken webs,
intricate in design, but structurally
unsound. The web has collapsed.
The inspiration, there one day,
becomes obscure the next. Ideas
are ephemeral at best. They bleed
deep wounds for superficial words.
I have lost my way along the highway
of creativity and yearn for cobbled
paths of imagery. Obscurity blocks
the turn. I have wandered awry again.
in by brain. It weaves silken webs,
intricate in design, but structurally
unsound. The web has collapsed.
The inspiration, there one day,
becomes obscure the next. Ideas
are ephemeral at best. They bleed
deep wounds for superficial words.
I have lost my way along the highway
of creativity and yearn for cobbled
paths of imagery. Obscurity blocks
the turn. I have wandered awry again.
posted by Vickie at 4:09 PM
2 Comments:
exactly how I've felt lately - I had a few that I really loved, and now I feel like I only have crap left. Time to spend a while reading I think - fill up again.
Was it really only two weeks ago that I wrote four poems that I considered to be outstanding? I don't enjoy fluctuations.
Post a Comment
<< Home