Writers block
At times I say to my pen
write dear pen
and scribble or scratch,
but whatever you do
write down words
and make sweet poetry
out of them.
But the pen lies silent
as if it’s ink is dry,
like a broken violin
that cannot play anymore.
So I go to my thoughts
and say think dear man
and dream and sing,
but I have forgotten everything
and every hymn
that I use to know
is gone out of my memory
as if it never was there.
So I try to dream
and to see pictures
of scenes of how
the words in the poems
should be,
but they grow stretching
away from me.
So I talk to my Muse
and no Muse answers me,
but when I pray
a thunderstorm flashes past
and words comes gliding down
like drops onto a thirsty soul.
poem by Gert Strydom
Added by Poetry Lover
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