I don’t feel like writing,
no inspiration to scribe,
my subconscious thoughts
once delirium,
no vacuous,
I want to hide,
to burrow my thoughts beneath
the doona,
my sheets,
embarrassed, uninspired,
where have you gone, Poetic Dreams?
Replaced instead with moods,
dreary, morose,
I cannot see positivity further
than my nose,
what happened to the ability
to contemplate? It seems
it’s gone with the wind,
awaiting a delivery, please.
Extract from my mind
the encumbrances,
the barriers to ambiance,
the inability to fly freely
with the pen,
my mind, it needs to mend,
to see itself, its contents
in the reflection
then thought’s will be
quantified,
quantifiable,
my ability returns
to be seen.
Gently, tenderly
then will great haste
and aplomb
my pen’s ink dances
across the paper
sending my soul alive
from numb,
pulsating with fervent hope,
delectable swirls and loops,
my frantic handwriting’s proof
that listless writer’s block
can be wiped away
with hopeful, passionate views.
I shan’t allow my feelings
which depressed,
to return, again,
at least not so soon,
I will bask in the luxurious luminance
of the inspiringly full and
enlightening Moon.
Copyright © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
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