where the writers are
Seriously, This is a Problem?

Pardon me, have you seen my muse?

She used to come around quite a bit.

Lately she has been derelict in her duties.

I fear that she may have packed her bags and left no forwarding address.

 

In my younger years, my angst was strong.

My anger was vital and fueled me through dark nights.

My resentments, my secrets, my mistakes stood around my bed.

Staring down at me as I fitfully struggled to sleep.

 

Yes, youth.  Hormones assuring every emotion would be felt to the fullest.

Deep and meaningful, the world around me full of color and detail.

Every thought I scribbled down was another layer of profound brick.

My pen and keyboard blazed with every declaration.

 

Love hurt, hate hurt, apathy hurt. I needed so much attention.

My esteem was low, my ignorance great, and my mouth didn’t know to shut.

Drama danced around me, picking me up and throwing me down.

But through it all, my notebook, my words, my key to surviving.

 

Words have never failed me, but I have failed them.

Perhaps I should know more of them, my verbal quiver somewhat lacking.

I should read more books, and spend less time clicking “like”

Stalling to find my next subject to eviscerate.

 

My muse has gone off to the ether, for my former fertile fields

Of fury, resentment, and distrust have grown fallow.

And the ghosts of the past no longer haunt me.

The doctors tell me that I am going to pull through.

 

Because I am finding that at this point in my life,

I am actually quite happy and content, and very satisfied.

With that Shiva-fire quenched, there seems to be less to talk about.

And it’s really f--king up my poetry.