Writer's Block

And yet the flow of my disorderly conduct,

bathes me in illuminous light.

Dissonance fills the passion of my soul,

Filling the void with certain strife.

The sweetness of the vinegar taffy,

Streamlines the utmost epitome-

-of my existance, my perpetual darkness,

Though the thought sickens me with sadness.

The thought of sharp words,

Stinging me with their ego,

Is like tepid waves of long past,

Swinging me on my boat to and fro.

Here I am trapped in a poem,

A sad one that, in one I am loathe.

Here creation is a waypoint for distribution,

Of truths better left unknown.

Cry, cry for me in your endless embrace,

Let me see that foolish face.

You're an enigma to me,

As this poetry is empty.

As raw words are filled,

And the wine is again spilled.

This poem is about: 


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