Heavy is my heart, as if death came 'round
And solemn is my soul which has no hope
My amazement has lost all its astound
Because that trusted tongue declares no scope
No direction or praise is rewarded
As often as it was use to before
My inspiration has been divorced me
Leaving my beloved canvass contorted
And my paintbrush to not paint anymore
Causing mine clear eyes to opaquely see
Once instilled with fervent motivation
As an au courant crusade under Christ
My pen needs severe verification
Because my light has succumb to a heist
Dimly lit, the weak candle tries to burn
Within my delicate tender spirit
It survives only by earnest thinking
In which it is adamantly returned
By minds in whom never did it orbit
But amongst stars in which it was resting
Once the wind against my wearying back
During the most humid, tiring days
There was no comforting excusive slack
Given as an outlet to stray away
Staying the rugged course was the lone route
Provided under this autonomy
No other options were eligible
To obtain rank in this prestigous clout
Which allowed me to produce so aptly
But without it, my work just seems banal
Where am I to look for direction now?
The standards that were set, cannot be matched
Reduced, I have become to simply sough
Remininscing on memories attached
Wishing that the source didn't disappear
Suddenly stupefying as it did
Which leaves me with no emotion but shock
Shock without a skillful pilot to steer
This lost soul who is sitting here amid
Thoughts of how to escape this writer's bloc
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