The trouble with finding a muse
Sometimes words will not come forth to me in the free flow form
of this thing I write, this matter of poetic concept, this splatter
of ideas like the memory of rain, the shadow of the storm
Sometimes my pen runs dry before it hits the empty page
leaving only droplets of regret, this fury of unspent emotion
this need to express, this passion of inspirational rage
Sometimes I look for the dreams I had long ago in my distant youth
looking for answers to the questions that I have misplaced
finding little but the silent keyboard, the lack of need, the loss of truth.
Sometimes I sit for hours looking for aspiration, imitation, anything to use
hours on the internet, in the silence of the evening, sounds of birds
filling my constant yet unassuming desire to find my muse.
Sometimes words will not come forth to me in the free flow form
of this thing I write, this matter of poetic concept, this splatter
of ideas like the memory of rain, the shadow of the storm
Sometimes my pen runs dry before it hits the empty page
leaving only droplets of regret, this fury of unspent emotion
this need to express, this passion of inspirational rage
Sometimes I look for the dreams I had long ago in my distant youth
looking for answers to the questions that I have misplaced
finding little but the silent keyboard, the lack of need, the loss of truth.
Sometimes I sit for hours looking for aspiration, imitation, anything to use
hours on the internet, in the silence of the evening, sounds of birds
filling my constant yet unassuming desire to find my muse.
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