Sometimes the words
struggle to be found.
Inspiration has gone
somewhere else.
Only seeing letters
on an empty page.
The voice isn't
speaking inside.
The somber autumn
morning crawls at a slow
poetic pace before me.
But inspiration comes
clumsily these days.
The voice doesn't
reciting the words
I want to hear.
Life's business has
clouded my mind.
Distractions all around.
Attention wavers.
Concentration faulted.
Unable to think.
I struggle with
the words.
Writing is an exercise.
Creating something
from what is nothingness.
Pondering a blade of grass,
the smell of autumn leaves,
the way the sun feels
on my age worn face.
Expressions of life.
I remember what it means
to write. I am not about
to just give up.
Feeling is a way of life.
Expression is the key.
Suddenly warmth from
the sun has touched me.
I can feel each blade of grass.
The struggle for words
still haunts me.
My mind has been
slowly awakened.
Time heals all wounds
I have heard.
Time to slow down
and listen.
The End
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