The Broken Poet Poem by James Edwards

To make a poem you must feel the wind,
Catch the perfect moment and ride it in.
The world seems different, an aura felt,
Synchronized movements as the cards are dealt.
But what happens when you are stuck?

Is the tar too heavy? Are you too tired?
Written too much? What’s left to inspire?
You become frozen trying to force out,
A rhyme that has lost its touch.

The room is empty, your mind is full
With headaches from the heart.
You pray for something, if just control.
Only for a taste of writer’s lust.

You think of metaphors that already exist.
And realize you’re just another.
With the same words written before,
But yours are only worse.

Then you hit bottom.
Nothing is left, just another Sentence.
With commas and periods. And no life.
Laughing at the loneliness.

Is there reason? Are there meters?
You try to find a pattern.
But it’s not broken, for it never was
Fixed on intelligence.

You realize you will never be Donne,
Or Shakespeare,
Or Poe. You’ll even try to write
With different Hughes.

But you are who you are
And this is the common tale;
That when the wind is dry,
Even the greatest minds fail.