Scribbles

I think my muse has fallen ill

I've lost my inspiration

I sit alone and grasp my quill

In hopeless anticipation

I scribble lines that make no sense

Only to be erased

The air around me becomes intense

The words I choose, a waste

I cannot choose the words I write

The words, they must choose me

Without my muse my words aren't right

As anyone can see

How can I free my tortured soul,

Without my muse's hand?

The words I choose cannot console

They do not understand

I think my muse has fallen ill

My words have been betrayed

The poems I write I cannot feel 

My thoughts have all decayed

Reviews

[Maria]

Wow! This captures 'writers block' so perfectly and accurately! Plus, it flows really well. Nice poem!

[David O Whalen (O Haol..]

Yeah, right! If I could only decay this well!

[....]

Such a wonderful read, fun light read that is cute.

[Renée]

Boy isn't that the truth sometimes! lol Cute write Whisk !

[anne p. murray- LadeeAn..]

This is such a delightful read, flows so well with words that capture the very meaning of what I call 'writers block". We want the words to "call to us" don't we...not to have to call on them. But needless to say...these words 'called to you' very well

[Serenity Faith]

I admire your work as always. Even scribbles turn into an elaborate picture when you write. I think your Muse is incapable of becoming ill.