deepundergroundpoetry.com
Frozen Hand...
The night is dark, I sit,
pen in hand, ready.
Nothing comes, my hand
frozen in place.
My mind locked on trivia.
Where are the inspirations,
where are the concepts,
where are those meaningful
dreams that might move one heart?
Then a voice in my soul says
poetry is not mechanical, not
like writing a book.
Because you are ready
I may not be.
Poetry is a journey, a pilgrimage
an exodus. All are invited
but few will listen. Soul to soul,
essence to the very center.
That’s poetry... words began
to flow from my pen, from a place
unknown. The words shine
and light the page. The dawn
has come, the journeys done.
pen in hand, ready.
Nothing comes, my hand
frozen in place.
My mind locked on trivia.
Where are the inspirations,
where are the concepts,
where are those meaningful
dreams that might move one heart?
Then a voice in my soul says
poetry is not mechanical, not
like writing a book.
Because you are ready
I may not be.
Poetry is a journey, a pilgrimage
an exodus. All are invited
but few will listen. Soul to soul,
essence to the very center.
That’s poetry... words began
to flow from my pen, from a place
unknown. The words shine
and light the page. The dawn
has come, the journeys done.
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