The Day The Sun Set (Poems)

Mutterings of The Bruised and Mad

Trying to write my own story,

Keep up the grammar,

The dialogue must be exact,

Getting sidetracked and whiplashed,

When the writer's block hits and I've side-railed the storyline from it's tracks.

And now I am stuck,

Walls are closing in numb,

Nothing will help,

Not even chewing my gum.

And I'm tapping my foot,

Nibbling my nails right down to the roots,

Of a tree with no branches that's trying to grow. And so. I'm hitting a low.

No I can't let this happen.

Try to focus, that's it.

While my toes are still tapping,

And there's nowhere comfortable to sit.

I need a new perspective,

But my glasses won't fit. 

 So what do I do?

As an author I let my characters lead,

But they're all yelping for help

and are falling off of their steeds.

It's like every door is locked, so where is the key?

I see it but it's just out of reach.

Maybe I could snatch it up if only I leap-

But to leap would be scary, for what if I fall?

What if I'm right. And there's no one to catch me after all?

And here I am.

Just trying and trying and trying to process all this.

A void of clocks are ticking,

And I'm just shaking.

Hugging my knees as I curl up by this empty wall.

I want to fill it with stories.

But I can't find the right crayon.

So here am I still sitting in my dressing gown.

I feel like a clown.

Like whatever I say I'll be letting people down. 

 If anyone should ask,

Not that they would,

I'll stay here with my face in my hands;

Erasing my tears,

before they all come

crashing down.

I think I need help,

The reason I need it is why I can't ask;

And no one else is willing to be up to the task.

Will I waste away without coloring the stories?

Without living up to all my fantasized glories?

Never wanted to be the big cheese,

But I wish I could understand why it's so difficult for me to say thank you and please...