A blank piece of paper,
Lies in front of me in mock,
I will myself to pick the weapon,
To release myself from shock.
What’s gotten into me?
Why these days can I not write?
I stare, nervousness building,
Did I lose my skill? I’m hit by fright.
In the back of my distracted mind,
I let my past and recent poetry flow.
Pertaining of emotions, thoughts,
But now, everything moves slow.
Concentrate! I plead to myself,
Eyes unfocused; again daydreaming.
Torn my thinking process has been,
One wanders, the other is screaming.
“Your worlds are calling to you!
For your love of art, write!”
It begs, it implores, but still,
Self-absorbed, my lower lip I bite.
For a flutter of a moment I focus,
Uneasiness swaps places with distraction.
Summoning strength I write “A blank piece…”
There! That feeling. Bubbling with commotion!
Scrawling, scribbling, I go on, and reach,
The part of “What’s gotten into me?”
Realization brings up a smile,
How such a simple notion could I not see?
I don’t write from my mind, no,
It’s my heart’s voice in poetry.
Something had hushed it down,
Deep inside it had felt so sultry.
Poetry triggered by emotions,
Have crafted my thinking and me.
Fragments of memories, incidents,
Of how I perceive the world, and see.
I wrote a poem on how I haven’t been able to write, where I’m writing the same poem where I haven’t been able to write, where I’m writing the same –… Well, you get the idea. Poem-ception. Heh.
And I really haven’t been able to write these past few days. Ugh. Kinda got distracted with stuff and this is about that. Every word.