With all my pen's scratches and scribbles,
You'd think I'd have written more than this rythmic dribble.
I sit back, to inhale inspiration
and all I exhale are word complications
and reason eradication.
On my floor lie crumpled pages of aborted manifestos;
Bastardized works casually conceived
out of a desperate need to release tension
held in emotional suspension.
In the end I come up empty
Still seaching for sweet words to purge me.
Eyeing the perfect rhyme to wrap me up in soft phrasing.
To curl up next to and protect me from unspoken fears.
To hold me tight while whiping away lyrical tears.
I get punch drunk in my vain attempts,
to ease mental strains and spirtual pains.
Hoping to force open locution petals,
Thirsting for dulcet utterances.
Then from nowhere...
I taste poetic intentions.
I hear whispers of phrased expressions.
And as I put pen to pad to leave my written impression....
...
Once again, words escape my grasp
And I am without scribed revelation.