It fails me, it now fails me
My emotions are locked up,
Fighting to break free
Yet smothered by…
I can’t tell.
Beyond my control, my body trembles…
Another strange fit of rage
Heralds the need to assuage my heart
It sears away my dreams
Reality is now too real
Eating into a world of perfection
I dare not steal another glance
Why now?
How can words fail me…how?
My nerves are razor-sharp,
A tango with hysteria
I sit and wait…fingers frozen on
a harp
As horrors engulf my Utopia
...strange...
ReplyDeleteDon't think too deep or hard, i was only writing about a writer's block. You know how it can feel right? Especially when you feel the heaviness of stuff waiting to be written, yet it is just not happening...the inspiration is just not there yet you know writing is like some haven, or get-away utopian world where for that moment, you can live in a different world...failure to write snatches that world from you and all you can do is to sit and wait...think about it.
ReplyDeleteso, the harp is your computer and your utopia,writing, is that so? even though you were standing outside of your utopia, you managed to produce such quality work[ though a little lower than your standard]. this shows that you are a born-writer.
ReplyDeleteYes, you are on point. Yeah, this one is not my best shot but it did break the dam for me.
ReplyDelete