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Frailty of The Poet
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Dark Poetry I have cut the words I speak of.
Sliced and bled them dry.
I have drained the life of writings, realized and set down my somnolent pen.
Weary are the phrases I know and the songs I sung, seemingly, have stepped out of tune.
The colors I see are faded—though brilliant—vibrant in their dissipation.
Worn pages in these notebooks, so frail now, they tear with ease away from the perforated edges.
Lost some place along the blue lines before me.
Somehow, the opacity of feelings can be seen and the transparent sheen of emotions is blurred.
Somehow, the spoken words are meaningless.
The written is now what I belong.
But the pen I hold is subdued and the ink has run dry.
For the poetry inside of me has died.
