Delusions scatter, inspiration dwindles;
how then shall I progress?
The world revolves on a shaky spindle
and the heart barely beats in my chest.
Having given so much to this wretched life,
I fear I’ve gone insane.
I awake at night with a sudden fright
and a fever in my brain.
I reach into descending light –
a trembling hand extends;
my fingers white, with no insight,
I grip the writer’s pen.
Words drip onto a page uncurled,
a scattering of thoughts still burning –
my soul calls out, “God, let me out!”
and speaks of desperate yearning.
Like splattered pools of fallen rain
that swallow my reflection,
I’m lost again and deep within
the fog of introspection.
And still no words to rise within
my consciousness this day –
expressions of this tortured scribe
Must find another way.
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The Winter Bites My Bones 
this is lovely – i always find it a bit curious when a poem or piece is written about being unable to write – writer’s block – the muse on vacation, so to speak – because – if the inspiration to write has flown away, why is it that a poem/piece was written about it? 🙂
truly, this is beautiful and eloquent. 🙂
Kimberly
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Thank you, Kim.
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You are welcome.
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Amazing, from not feeling able to write, something so beautiful has come. I love your blog and am grateful to have found it!
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You are so kind and thank you for visiting my blog!
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Welcome… I’m grateful for having found your blog.
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