Tonight the words are
finding it hard to appear,
hiding in the shadows
their route is not clear.
I know what I want to write
but the words will not come out
leaving feelings of frustration
at this apparent drought.
Ideas that were once so plentiful
have vanished in the night,
words without meaning are
all that is left to write.
Paper is ripped up to
be thrown on the fire,
everything is wooden
and lacking in desire.
The tiniest of sparks
is all that I need,
some small encouragement
to act as a seed.
Inspiration will then come
from the most
mundane of things,
then the words can spill out
and I can make sense
of what they bring.
Advertisements
