sometimesihatemycat

The will to write escapes me
Not because there is nothing
But because there is too much
And in that muchness I feel nothing
I have become a shadow whisp of me
With vortex-swirls inside
Contained by only what once was
And ghosts they cannot write of it
Their fingers only slip through keys
Or try to grip pencils in vain
The most they do is flicker lights
Perhaps with just enough mad fight
They may knock a few memories
To shatter from some shelves
Maybe rearrange a few dear pieces
Causing only slight concern
Or speak their scattered verse
In the static between stations
I can do that, I have done that
But write about the nothing much
With fingers made of unformed air
What restless spirit can do that
No matter the will to try

-a.r.

Painting: Judith By Laurel Hausler

~ by April on June 24, 2017.

Posted in Body, Death, God, Humanity, Identity, Loss, Poetry, Writing
Tags: Anatta, Anicca, Beckett, Drive, Dukkha, Emptiness, Empty, Feeling, Fight, Fullness, Ghost, grief, I will go on, Nothing, Poetry, Spirit, Will, Writer's Block, Writing