Creed of a Poet

Can anyone feel me bleeding?

The pen is hooked up to my veins;
intravenously...
the ink enters my blood stream
The ultimate high
after all else has failed

The notepad accepts
blood as payment
couple of pints
for eight measly lines
frozen teardrops for a page
shattered dreams
for a novel…

When I asked the jukebox
to please double my dosage
"you can't get lower than the bass clef"
he said...

I have built up a tolerance
for the blues scale
No matter how low you ride it
you always come crashing up

The sunrise used to make me fly
Now it only gets me buzzed
Suddenly...
The beach's waves
and the seagull's song...
seem utterly pointless

In simpler times she did
she did get me high
time, after time, after time

All which was needed
was her scent...
for me to immediately
transcend

but this is now;
that was then.

Now all I have
is a rusty pen

and all it does is wait
for me to feel the need
again...

Reviews

[alternative_be]

The pen and the poet becoming one... This is a wonderful symbiosis, so ink and and all bodily fluids become one. I like the images you use and I can relate to your blues!
All aspects of writing are covered by your poem, which reads easily and will be put among my favourites
Thank you for writing this!

[Silent Kim aka mizmetap..]

Very creative, your words flow smooth like the blood/ink of your pen. Very nice write.

Thanks for your entry in my contest and good luck.

[Spoken]

the pen is always there waiting like a lover but you cannot take from her without giving back. When we write we can make reality so much better..

it's funny how things that once were so vibrant and alive can suddenly dull to the senses.

Love the flow and feel.

[Hawksmoor]

Now all I have
is a rusty pen and all it does is wait
for me to feel the need
again...

The blessing and curse of The Skill and The Passion.

F**k, I haven't read this in a long time. Honestly, it's just as f*****g great and poignant as it was the first time I read it.

The utensil and the pad, the fingers and the PC screen, the brain and any amount of open space...this piece speaks of a terrifyingly strange (and beautiful) symbiosis. One without the other is fairly pointless. Zeal enough to animate lifeless space, raise it into significant expression, that's what the Thing In Your Head is, at the base of things.

One without the other is nothing.

time, after time, after time

Do it again.

Hawksmoor...From The Bleed.