03-15-19

Writing

I wonder at the almost feverish actions of my youth

Scrawling out word after word to make a sentence.

Stitching those sentences together to form a barely coherent poem.

It mattered not the hour of the day or night.

And now, everything is silent.

The pencil no longer scratches at the paper,

The words are not mumbled to ensure they would not be forgotten.

After careful consideration I am forced to come to the conclusion,

That my once faithful muse

Has abandoned me for loftier planes,

Leaving me empty.

Bewildered, I wonder what I am now,

For a writer without a muse,

Cannot be a writer at all.

Reviews

[Julie McCarthy (juliesp..]

Congratulations 🥳 in third place in competition

[Julie McCarthy (juliesp..]

Bravo I love your poem
Thanks for entering my why I write competition and good luck