PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

A wake for the mind,

Inspiration fleeting away.

Like a dying fad,

The spark it seems at most,

To have never been there.

He cringed at the thought that he may never be able to write again. His years of soberiety did nothing for him. Every waking day was a dream shrouded in self misery. Sitting at his desk with a pen and pad, desperatly trying to conjure a familiar thought from years long lost, but nothing came and the words ceased to exist. Trying so hard to find his muse, an inspiration that to him, seemed to have never been there. Any other poor desperate fool would have given up and took the path of other failed artist. But along with his anger he was stubborn, It may have not been a great combination, It was all he had left though. So he sat there at his desk, day through night and day again. For some reason, this writing he called his own, mattered to much absorbing to much of his time.

Cringing trying to find the light,

Nothing compared to the suns great rays,

Is as ever bright,

Not even the lights in my head.

Not even the rain, 

Can show me the way.

Once more at his desk this time with a bottle in hand. The young writer discontent with his unsatisfaction, decided that his muse is in the bottom of the glass-he just had to find it. Drinking along with the night celebrating the loneliness that only he knew. A sip and than a shot turned into so much more. The burn that his throat felt grew numb. The table top grew wavy. The liquor almost gone, and the saddest feelings returning. Walking his unwavered way to the kitchen hoping to find some food to calm his dizzy head. He stumbled and staggered down the stairs, down the dark corridor and into the kitchen. Mumbling and stuttering talking himself to a wistful sobreity he opend his fridge, looked in, and found nothing. 

Anger coming and going,

I feel the heat from it creeping.

I see now that I'm showing,

The weakest parts of me.

The weakest parts of myself,

To no one.

Staring hopelessly at the fridge, maybe hoping for a small snack to appear. The drunk found no other option to accompany his hunger. Instead of clamly picking up his phone to order some food, he grabs a old wooden table chair and slams it into the ground. The chair breaks, the legs snap and splinters of wood fly far and wide, some flying into his arms. Uknowing what he had just done, he begins to feel a rage come from all of his sorroundings, all the while his arm bleeds onto the ground. Slowly a vision to write begins to turn black, a vision to see faded away, an empty stomach growling in pain. The drunk overcome by his inebriated condition screams his pain away. 

The night carries away,

I'm caught in a stalemate with myself,

With what I couldnt keep at bay,

And it seems now like always,

That I've fallen into disarray

To temptation and a sin,

I could not help.

The following morning the man woke up to a hazy morning and a furious headache. Looking to and fro to find a broken wooden chair and blood on the tiled floor. He lay on the ground flooded with emotions of regret and remorse. Not knowing the events of the night previouse, not willing to believe what happened, to believe what he had done one to many times before. He sat up took a deep breath, tried to nurse his aching head but failed. Looking around once more he finds his arm coverd in dry blood. Not even bothering to question the obviouse, he stood up and made his way to his study. 

Entering the room he finds that surprisingly everything is left the way it was. No papers scattered throughout, no broken bottle lay on the floor. He muttered to himself "at least my chair is still intact". Pausing a moment to reflect on his dry joke, he suddenly finds himslef filled with penitence. Reflecting on the past, questioning if he wants to continue his dreadful ways. Or if he would like to repent and begin life anew. Once more he pauses again reflecting even more on his situation. He thinks long and hard. 

The man makes his way downstairs, cleans his mess from the night before, and tends to the wound on his arm. He packs up his most special belongings, locks all of the doors, closes any open window. He goes to his study leaning over his desk and wondering how the night before even began. Looks at his unfinished writing. He picks up a pen and scribbles a few more words that best ends the poem. He goes downstairs to his front door, looks back to his home realizing he would not miss any of the memorys that are etched within the walls and leaves to begin anew.

And although the mistakes I've made are devious,

The memorys I've layed into the foundations of this old home are set in stone.

I can forget them all.

I can finally close my eyes, 

I can finally move on with my life,

And begin again elswhere.