literature

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Literature Text

Pages blank as an open canvas,
Pen as dead as a doornail.
What was once so easy
Is now agonizingly difficult.

Words used to flow like a river
With sonnets of passion and love;
Stories of sorrow and loss;
And many an enticing tale.

Now, like his old fountain pen,
His mind is bone dry. His Imagination,
Once wild and free as a mustang,
Now no more than a plow horse

Every writer has their time to shine,
His may just be ending.
Though no more words will pour from his pen,
At least he left plenty for others to see.
An over-exaggerated expression of how I felt my writing was going.

Whatever, at least I posted something new after all this time! :XD:
© 2009 - 2024 musiclover07
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