She says shes a poet
A weaver of words
Regardless, the tales she spins hold no allure
Years haven't managed to turn her into an author
Whether she wishes it or not this is the way she will stay
So the passion that burned in her heart fizzled to ashes
Pen and paper grow cold
Gathering dust on an empty desk
The poets love is gone
She gave up on her endeavor
When improvement was out of reach
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A poets muse is a fleeting, skittish sort of thing. Sometimes a writer is overflowing with words and messages to share and convey. Other times words seem to elude us.