WHEN THE PEN FORGETS TO BLEED. (An Original Poetry) Day 40
Sometimes the mind.
becomes clogged with emptiness.
opening into an abyss of nothingness.
like a written epitaph.
with blank pages.
with mysteries, unsolved.
and memories forgotten.
sometimes the words refuses to flow.
it's like a rock
stuck In the path of a flowing fountain.
Images exists in the abyss of the mind.
but it somehow dies in uncertainty.
birthing only barrenness.
and leaves us wriggling.
like a dying earthworm.
sometimes the pen is a sword.
lying around in ambush.
waiting to slaughter alphabets.
on the strokes of the dotted lines.
of our poetry books.
but sometimes the mind is a bastard.
soft as a custard.
and sturdy as the walls of china.
Sometimes the pen forgets to bleed.
leaving us blank with confusion.
it's like hand picking a thistle of weed.
in a haystack of corn.
the memories are like a gush of water
yet they forget to trickle and drizzle.
sometimes, we forget our mastery.
like a skill of archery.
we are like a swordsman at battle.
but we're Just cattle.
Without swords or spear.
our minds deserts us in time of need.
and we forget our prowess.
only when the pen forgets to bleed.
I couldn't agree more with the message of your poem. Most writers do experience this scenario at times... their pen lie on the paper without any intention to write.
Thanks bro @josediccus for sharing.
certainly buddy, thank you for reading
Wow! I love this... creative what the pen can do.
thank you so much