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THE POET'S LAMENT
Coloured meter finds a rhythm it knows
While written words play along for a show
Carving meaning to fit a thought I had
Box it in or let it out; I go mad
Title has me unsure of any more
Blankness rises to greet me at the door
Throw down some cliches and hope for the best
Do I emphasise this word or a rest?
Big ideas, swirling around my head
When I write they translate to junk instead
Fishing for a hook to pin my hopes on
A metaphor before this goes so wrong
A pedestal I see upon the page
Awaits my standing to express my rage
Or is it solace I wish to express?
Upon this page my words appear a mess
But time is of the essence; I am told
I was young when I started, now I'm old
I wanted to bedazzle with my words
A destination I will move towards
Why is it some days my thoughts sink like lead?
All these hopes I had; they all lay here dead
Try once more; formulate a magic plan
But don't look; I stand upon shifting sand
Mesmerised by the blank page within sight
To come up with a first draft; metered tight
And celebrate my wordy afterglow
But the tap is off; words to me don't flow
Crumpled paper in the bin you shall dwell
Wordless voice; a Poet laments in hell
Or does he overemphasise his pain?
This is just how the Poet plays his game
This poetry is my own work, written for Steemit
Image Credit: Unsplash.com
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