Dusting off the imaginary cobwebs
From my word document pages,
I adjust my vision to focus on my
keypad quill and LCD parchment.
Words--- are just words they say.
Words we use every day, hour,
minute,
Until we know not what we say,
What we mean, what we have said minutes ago,
Words that come so easily at the
most inopportune moments,
When silence is the ideal, have abandoned me.
Poetry hangs in a mist all around
as I reach out to touch it,
Stick out my tongue to taste it,
But all that touches me is air,
All I taste is bitter
tastelessness.
My muse has turned thief and
stolen
All the words crowded at the tips
of my fingers,
Left unwritten.
Love is a cliché, politics
overused,
My metaphors dry and my wit, a
wet blanket.
So here I sit, one hand idly
tapping out nonsense,
The other, a fist on my cheek
In a posture of false
thoughtfulness,
And here I wait, like so many
before me,
For words to come find me once
more.
