Who turned it off,
the spicket spouting sounds?
I cannot think of anything, silence now abounds.
Where has it gone,
the color to my canvas?
My paintbrush is dry, I am almost out of stanzas
Will it return,
the form that fills my frames?
My lead is depleted, there is nothing on the page.
This poem is about a loss of creativity, something that has hit me pretty hard this week. In fact, I didn't even write this poem this week. I wrote this one almost half a year ago, and found it more true now than it was back then. I don't know why, but I struggle with sudden blackouts of creativity, the proverbial "writer's block", (I hate that term). If you're curious about the title, or lack thereof, I chose it because I thought it was fitting and drove home the point of losing creativity. A title is a crucial part of any writing, whether it's a story or a poem, and I think that leaving it as "title" shows an absolute blank space in creativity.
So yeah, definitely less meaning in this poem, but an honest confession of one of the most challenging and recurring moments in any creative work. Have a great weekend, and find some time to relax and rejuvenate your mind. I know I'll be trying to.
Comentários