While my muse runs around the house in bathrobe and curlers,
I wonder when I will ever write another poem again?
It happens, so they say, after years of inspiration, all of a sudden I find myself
with nothing left to say.
Between us poets, I think we have said everything, a few times over.
We have said our truths in so many different words and ways..
In so many tongues and styles, we scribble our verses and observations
and draw our conclusions… but by the end of the day, we have said it all and….
there’s nothing left to say.
Do you feel me redundant, a repeater of what I wrote last year, last month?
Are my poems, just babbling and dabbling trying to desperately connect to all the rest?
Have I lost my novelty, my edge, my thirst to touch you with relevance, in your own lives?
I wish to wake up from this sterile dream, that whispers so hopelessly in my ear,
“You have nothing left to say.
Nature, Love, the Meaning of Life and Death have all been recorded.
My blog has a running stream, of ten years of conjecture mixed with pure awe of Life.
My poetry has been flowing ceaseless and now it seems, it dribbles aimlessly…
My muse, can not care less, as she shuts herself behind a door that reads
“I have nothing left to say.”
February 17, 2021