A poet is only as good as his last poem
And I’ve lost my words
On a path that has strayed from sight
With dark shadows hanging on to me
My head bows under the weight
Of guilt, anger and pain
My legs wade through a fog
Of vowels and consonants
Jumbled and tangled non scenically
I am fake; I am fraud
I know this because I’ve been told
By the ghosts of my dark mind
They whisper, always whisper
Of my impending fall
And fall I do, over and over
Coming to rest in a bloody pool
Of garbled gibberish
Neck deep in debased humiliation
Copyright © JRFC April 2019 Image from Pixabay
Great lines, and considering your opening gambit, a non-secitur.
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Okay then, thank you. Just put it down to my frame of mind 👍🏻
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Indeed, a profound insight into the feeling of blocked, I found it wrenching, so powerful.
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👍🏻
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Really Awesome post, My Friend!! Love poems about writing poems! Great imagery and wordsmithing!!
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Thank you, that’s much appreciated 👍🏻
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Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
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Thanks for the reblog👍🏻
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