As I walk back from the kitchen
I feel the air growing cold
With all the lines I haven’t written,
All the words I haven’t told;
I can’t sleep tonight as well,
Boy, I’ve got stories to tell
But I just sit, trying to catch up with my youth while my body’s getting old.
I’m with my cup, sipping memories,
Eyes following the clock
Because my poetic treasury
Is sealed by writer’s block
And my sadistic muse
Has gone without a clue
But she left this insomnia with me; it is my chain and my lock.
It started not so long ago –
With my media scope
I just found your photo
And it illumed my hope;
You looked just like I’ve seen
This in my haunting dream
And this gave me confidence to get to you, walking on a tight rope.
So I’ve sent you my words
Telling that I have never
Seen someone so comely,
So inspiring and clever,
But the answer was neither
Good or bad, it appeared as
A blanket of silence painted black, covering my endevour.
On this lonely august night
I feel the air growing cold;
I ask myself if this is right,
If I deserve love at all,
If I’m nothing but waste
Destined to be left in place
As a light soaking monolith engraved with poetry of my fall.
But my muse has returned –
With her bewitching caress
She cut my soul where it hurt
And let the words out of my chest,
And I felt so alive
Writing my newborn lines;
Then I asked her “Will I ever be loved?” and she said “Never knows best”.