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Voiceless.
The ink falls dry upon the page
I have no voice to own this stage
words I seek now ill defined:
shackled beats in cloistered mind.
I hear the call of phrase unborn,
the struggled cries, their rise forlorn.
Fractured sentance, splintered verse
they damn my pen with voice perverse.
Fractured Sentences
Pretty good description of poetry - I shall go forth and write fractured verses - :D
My verses had become so
My verses had become so fractured I would need some very strong glue to repair their meaning! I hope yours turn out much better, I'm certain they would :-) Sue.
True For All Writers
"...I hear the call of phrase unborn,..." This line says so much of what we do. It is a search, a voyage, and a reporting of what we find using words as tools marginally capable of executing the task of naming the sublime. :D