The writer in me sits still
And teases as I fish and fidget
As I feel the discomfort
The scratching yawning chasm
Where my words once filled my heart
And flowed onto pages
Making real
My life internal
Even this, empty,
turned on resolutely
By my word holding muse
I turn to pages
Of other’s nets
To soak in how the winds
Have been caught
And wrought
By others.
April 11, 2010 at 4:04 pm
Vicarious pleasure–it gets a bad rap, yes?!
Hope you are well, love–
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April 11, 2010 at 4:04 pm
Every writer relates to this…
ode to insomnia
Also don't forget to post your creative works at Monday Poetry Train Revisited on Monday mornings
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April 12, 2010 at 12:33 am
I love this poem about the creative process.
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April 12, 2010 at 5:33 am
Unique take on the prompt, enjoyed reading this!
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April 12, 2010 at 6:31 pm
Thankyou Guatami, Sol and Dances with wolves!
And yes Beth, doesn't it just…in a world where it seems to be such a huge proportion of how we live!
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April 13, 2010 at 12:03 am
That muse can be a b*t*h sometimes can't she?
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April 13, 2010 at 2:34 am
A wonderful look at writerly lives!
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April 20, 2010 at 5:55 pm
Yep! sure can Mojo!
Thank you Tumblewords
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