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Setting by my laboratory desk, pencil shavings on the bed.

Fluorescent lights illuminating the room. Floor coated with crumbled spiral notebook scraps.

I place the pen on the pad and begin wondering when it will come.

Positioning myself in the stance of the stoned man, The Thinker.

Deep in thought until at last an idea spawns in my head but drifts away like the rest.

Is this the end?

Should I come to terms that my writing days maybe coming to an end?

I tear the paper out of anger and let it join its companions.

Feeling as though this might be more then writers block. A block of my vision, it's like a boulder has been dropped and is working against my current river of thought.

 

Lacking creativity and substance. It's sad that my recent works have come to this.

Kind of wishing I could get back to those days where I could write a couple of lines and soar away. Painting murals with my words, colors blend and mix as the syntax and diction shift. Back to those gravitational pieces that catch the eye.

Sparks would fly whenever my pen and paper collide. But there's no turning back the hands of time. To be honest, I started this with no intention of finish meant.

To have gotten this far should be concerned an accomplishment.

Right?

But it's not, so it is to my inner poet that I send my condolences.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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