my pen has finally run out of it's poetic ink.
The lines of the book filled; a tired pen,
and a brain that now struggles to think.
A heart in conflict with itself; so confused,
It's misguided and lost it's once home truth.
where is the pool of rhythms I once used,
lost deep in my mind; I've lost my muse.
Now I can't seem to find a word that cures,
Now I can't build sentences that will heal.
The passion is dying; all that was so pure,
And that which guided me is forever sealed.
Why do I now yearn for the cold touch of death,
why is there havoc in the depths of my head?
I have no more answers but so many questions,
and my pen just won't write again; not even a breath.
So many tears fall; my emotions imbued in the earth,
yet I can't write whatever it is in my heart that hurts.
I can't find the words; no where in this lonely world,
No escape to this prison of questioning my worth.
Whatever I felt was the fuel to the melodies I wrote,
but now I'm bereft of it; not even a glimmer of hope.
My pen stays in it's place gathering specks of dust,
just as my heart is without an emotion to touch.