I should write more poetry of my own,

But I’m too lazy.

Reading the amazing talent of others I follow,

Only further berates me.

I think in rhyme, at times,

But rarely is it wrote.

This loneliness of mine,

Ensures that hardly a word is spoke.

Except to myself in the solace of night,

Solace? What solace? Yeah right!

I’d best quit,

While I’m still ahead.

Lest I write so poorly,

That I’d stir the dead.

So I lay me down, 

In my empty bed.

Reminded clearly why,

My lover has fled.

Writer’s Block

After feeling passionate about wanting to write about these blurbs that have been plaguing me for so long now, it seems as if the chatter in my head has reached fever pitch to the point where very little is actually filtering through to the conscious mind. I have so many thoughts racing through my head, yet can think of nothing worth sharing…not that this blog is being read by anyone…even invited guests don’t appear interested…maybe that’s partly the reason for the writer’s block. A friend once told me that the words and thoughts flow so much more naturally if the hearts it’s intended for are more receptive. Lots of truth in that. No hearts receptive for this drivel, no wonder the source is running dry with dust storms taking its place.