Words were once my friends
They were always there at the tip of my fingers
Ready to be written, to be typed
Whenever an idea hits through me
But now they are all gone
They left me alone empty
They left me with my self with no meaning at all
Where are these words that I long for?
I lost myself that learned art
To life that stole my heart
Now I am nothing but a simple canvass
With empty threads of white
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I think most good poets have been here Devlin. You've penned this frustration so beautifully; apparently your muse is seeking a return :)