A Clumsy Stab

After all the lines I have followed,
Words that sound clever
And acute fill the page.
Clumsy stabbing motions
Of the ego surfacing in nothing
But shiny regalia.

Words that form great knots of confusion.
My pen traces that dividing line,
Surely mightier than the nuclear sabre.

And me, I continue.
I drink tea and write poetry,
That is all there is.
To express my fragile sadness
Of an all too human eye
Without cessation of bliss.

A voracious tide of ink
Eroding sanity.

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2 Responses so far »

  1. 1

    NIKOtheOrb said,

    This makes me think of times when writing out of the “flow”, when the stream of consciousness that usually accompanies writing is absent. But the need or want to write is there, but one just can’t find the words (the clumsy stab), but words must fill the page. And yet, “without cessation of bliss” writing still brings that serenity; but like the nonduality of it, can still “erode sanity.”

    Another excellent and poignant poem!


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