Poetically Dead
Poetically dead is the thought that runs threw my head
When I cannot find the weave of words to begin the spool of thread
Instead a road block is in my way
Searching for the phrase to express my pain
To express my joy, the embodiment of me at the time
And I draw a blank for the words do not do me justice why?
What is inside?
What makes us revered even after we die?
HOw do we become as immortal as Orion or Cerce?
There is a fine line of sanity and madnis and a lot of writers tread this line
Whether we cross or not is up to me and thine
Poetically dead
Lost in weaves of the thread
Nothing but you too pull you from depresion’s dread breath
Poetically dead
When the poet’s pen’s inc no longer seeps
Into the paper and then the tears fall down the cheeks
The bafflement and sense of confusion
For now?
Thw words do not come; it is hopeless
So what is left of our gift to write
To convey meaning and give life to creatures, gods, humans, and make them divine?
(2015)
