From my pen there used to flow
Words like fire of feeling in many a row,
They came too quickly for my sluggish scroll
Like a feverish hasty ball they would roll,
But now I found my pen runs dry
Too exhausted to spread poetic wings and fly.
Is it the pen or perhaps the mind to blame?
Or maybe the heart has extinguished its painful flame,
For the meloncholy monster that used to be
I say farewell, it turns to flee.
Away it goes to torture a lost soul
Because Christ came with me and took back all he stole.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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I liked the sense of growth here and even though there is a quiet to your words, I can feel the peace. You haven't lost your words; they are just presenting themselves differently. A lovely poem you've written here about the process of self-growth and freedom from inner-monsters. The heart is now ready for a new flame...
~ Nicolette
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