Creative juices run dry
And with that, so do I
I work and work
And tired by sunset
The keys do not mean a word
I print and edit
And re-type my thoughts:
the only product from
this guilt-tripping world.
My work seems unimportant,
Now, why do I do this?
To people with closed minds
It's hard to explain myself.
It hurts my tired eyes
The pulsing and rhyme,
scansion and syllables
All must be right.
I am unfortunate in my ways
I am gifted, perhaps, yet still
I get confused and upset
And run out of ideas to spill
Onto fresh paper:
A plot, a twist
A scarily perfect protagonist.
The more I read
The more it hurts
To endlessly despise
my choice of words.
Thanks for sharing your frustration. I'm not a writer but do love writing ;) I don't write without a strong desire to express! Ideas and inspiration are the sword to chop the block, and they come perhaps by contacting with non-writers? !
I like this poem very much - - stirs the core of what it is like being a poet.
Sadly true of most writers. Well depicted and sweetened idea. Much kudos, poetess.
You don't have to be any longer cynical about your work Because this poem is absolutely wonderful Thank you for sharing Evelyn Mario Odekerken
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Brilliant, clear, focused and factual. Work of a sober mind written with clarity of thought and mind. Thanks for sharing Evelyn.