My silent gods
Absent tonight
With glass in hand
A pen to write
But barriers of
Snow linen lock
My will to fail
Writers block.
Tender dreams
Nostalgic thought
Rivers of years
Roll back and forth
The more I try
No release
An orator
Without speech.
A moment caged
To freedom seek
A magical ride
An unknown street
Autumn now
With Winter curled
Ready to spring
When unfurled.
-
Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: October 22nd, 2025 03:35
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 25
Offline)
Comments3
I love the metaphor of winter and spring to the issue of writer's block. I have had in on numerous occasions and the worst poems are written when trying to force it. A good read
thanking you
You are most welcome
Why does writers block end at four in the morning?
Is this to get you up, or is your mind taking the Michael.
yes it does seem that way and sometimes 2 poems come along like buses, thanks for reading
Inspiration is a capricious mistress.
so true
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.