Back Again

These are the words I wish to write,

I can no longer act sadness or delight.

Please, do not give in to the rusty pen,

As I wish to be free of my holding pen.

 

Ink turns dry, Blood turns cold.

My heart slows and gathers mold.

As the old saying of a writer's mind,

Sometimes it is wise, sometimes blind.

 

The moths fly into killing light,

just because it gives them delight.

As they head straight into death's clap,

I pity their shortsightedness of the trap

 

Just like the moths, I fly into the light,

I stop, because this is not the only flight.

I look around and see a dimmer, safer glow.

I fly to its warmness, and let myself go.

 

As I arrive, I fill myself with glee,

And I wish others to follow me.

So I will give you this map,

to avoid the dry ink trap.

Reviews

[Leanne Conway]

This poem is beautiful. I love thi piece. Nicely done hon. =)

=^^= (Tis a KittyKat xD)

[Bubo]

Lovely word play, writers block is just so frustrating, but you wrote a great piece of work, with wonderful metaphors!