Current poems in progress...

False starts and empty lines
The face of poetry;s failure
Streaked with tears
And empty of words

DEATH OF A POET

Here I sit alone, my pen in hand,
without a thought on my mind.
It is hard for me to understand.
This has never happened to me before.
My mind blank as the paper before me.
I can not think of one simple rhyme.
Subject matter escapes my labored brain,
nothing giggles the gray matter at this time.
I lie awake in my bed night after night,
broken thoughts like ghosts in my head,
some joyous and some full of anger or fright.
Why won't they work into some rhyme?
Has it finally happened, has it left me?
No, no! This can not be, I must try.
Is this the reality of things that are?
"Am I alone here in my mind?" I sigh.
As a poet, must I give up and die?
The page no longer yields it's mirth?
I fear that it's useless to even try.
I will insert the pen into my heart and die.
---RJ