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by Ginette T Bellelately i've been waking up in a state of trepidation
unable to remember what day it is
or where i'm supposed to be
and that alone
is daunting enough to liquefy my exhaustion
onto my bloodless linen pillow
but the greater horror that hovers above me
is the poetry, drained of its healing force,
barely fit for the toilet bowl
flush
and down there where the rocks hit the bottom
with cacophonous sounds that echo through and through
i wonder if it is he that blocks my vision
if his unwillingness to live was a mistake at all
the image with an ubiquitous air,
falling, the ultimate headache
leaving everyone jolting, scraping for the surface
lately i watch my feet moving
and sometimes ask where they are going
i haven't gotten an answer yet
11/19/2004 Author's Note: major case of writer's block for the last few months...this is definitely unfinished...
Posted on 11/19/2004
Copyright © 2025 Ginette T Belle
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 11/19/04 at 07:36 PM I heard it said somewhere (could have been Leonard Cohen) that a writer keeps writing despite what they turn out sometimes being substandard. We poets occassionally have to purge our minds and souls of the crap before we can get back to the good stuff. I especially like the humor, though probably unintended of: is the poetry, drained of its healing force, barely fit for the toilet bowl flush. Good luck Ginette. *hugs*
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| Posted by Michele Schottelkorb on 01/18/05 at 09:07 PM deep, sad... your words paint a picture... blessings... |
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