Kinsley Osborne
My words are to be sweet, convey love and hate
But my world is a world with nothing to create,
My experiences are not my own,
They are concepts of a mind that is prone
To wandering, wandering valleys and streams
But except of streams, it is dry and it hurts and life seems
To be absent, the air is thick and it is hard to breathe
And everything is opening up at the seams
My fingers are stretching, full of sand
Creating stories, words that my mind demands
And for what? What is there to be won?
Other than digging out the glass-like granules of sediment from my broken skin, look at what this need has done
I sit down with an intention and get lost in my phone
There is nothing that my mind can create and I feel so alone
Some days are like this and I survive the curse of whatever deity there is, throws at me,
My brain is slack and all words are thrown to the sea, a watery wasteland
All that is left is my broken blinds and last night's uneaten dinner
But occasionally I do create something I enjoy, something that provides me with joy
But I always end up hating when it does happen because now I cannot find the inspiration, the spark
For something relatively good, again, because those words left my vocabulary with a numbing pass
of treatment and, "A pleasure to have in class."
YOU ARE READING
The Lifeline of a Poet
PoetryPlease do not repost, original post. I was in a bit of a slump, I had ideas but no good way to translate them into something readable! Despite my block, this actually helped and now I have a full schedule. It is a terrible feeling but one that is in...
