The fluid motions of frantic thought
Which once flowed through my mind
Are held at bay with bars iron-wrought
My muse, not there to find
While roads of concepts pierce the skin
Of genius and mundane
The ones composed of the sublime, then
Retreat and become lame
Rotting corpses of poets’ dream
Litter the virgin white
Letters all dried I can not clean
O’er them I cannot write
What scorned demon hath this power
To rip pens from my hand
My fingers chilled in a shower;
Otherworldly demand
To you I plea, end this torture
Whatever your name be
Though this is your perverse pleasure
I’m dying, can’t you see?
Author notes
more of a "revised" version of my writers block poem.
I don't really like it, but whatever.
A contest entry
- The Largest Contest On AP!!!! by Midnight-x-Rose.
3000 points, ended August 26, 2008, 1807 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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