Grasping at straws

The infertile piece of my mind,

where the words refuse to root and grow-

where the sentences become silence

and i fight to find words-

in fact I am grasping at straws.

 

Unable to summon an image,

or two,

like a old black and white Polaroid picture-

developing slow.

 

I take my time

try to beat out a rhyme.

 

Why do we write?

Why write something as old-fashioned,

as poetry?

I ask these questions to my soul,

wondering what words

will fall next

across my page,

 

as I am just mutely

in a deep dank daze.

 

somedays the right words,

they never come.

other days, i am full of verbage,

full of riddles, full of phrases, half-baked imagery.

 

Being a poet is never easy.

Though there are some, who make it look so.

The roar of the fan, in the summer morning heat,

Like a quiet Lion, never missing a beat.

 

And my mind soldiers on empty.

a poem left incomplete.

grasping at straws,

longing to say

something significant-in some kind of way.

 

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