DW ( / Covington Kentucky)

A Pen Gone Dry

Barren fields…empty places
Mind devoid of idea and rhyme
Sterile imagination…featureless faces
Webs in memories, frozen in time

Fingers flaccid, mind unwilling
Heavy lies this heart of mine
Creative forces not fulfilling
Empty flask of poetic wine

Dried up source of poetic spring
Used up store of poetic phrases
Emptied purse with untied string
Like worn out shoes and old frayed laces

Time away… might grow the field
Time away… might fill the empty places
Perhaps time will let the emptiness yield
To imagination…and full featured faces

Now...inkwell empty
Tear in eye
Pristine paper
Pen... gone dry...

User Rating: 4,8 / 5 ( 4 votes ) 6

Comments (6)

Guess I'm the poet that doesn't exist! This has never happened to me, every time I pick up my pen and listen to music the poetry flows continually and instantaneously for days on end. Write from one to 122 poems every day. Just lucky I guess. Thank you for sharing, it has shown me how normal poets experience this. RoseAnn
Just how I feel right now. In four months I submitted 96 poems (I have since deleted three of my weakest ones) . They just kept popping into my head. I always had three or four ready to submit at any time, and now they have suddenly stopped. But I don't mind at all. For now I am content just to read the poems of others.
This captured the lack of poetic thought perfectly.
How true - the poem tells what we sometimes experience: Writer's Block. Great write!
I agree with Brian [below]... and I don't think an artist or poet exists that hasn't been in the place you write about. Well done. Shirley
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