Umm...
Suppressed Creation
My fingers have taken on their own will,
begging me to allow them to create.
Ten little sparks,
itching to create a roaring fire.
But my pen is empty.
No sadness,
not much pain,
and therefore no ink.
Smiles, Laughter,
starry eyes
don't make words.
How then, do I appease such digits,
longing to write?
Hy heart's content,
my fingers restless.
You have taken permanent residence in my mind
(so it would seem)
thoughts invaded-
paper blank.
The artist mourns,
the lover rejoices,
the being-
torn.
Happy.
Cherished.
And yet they reach- .
(., for the poem must end.)
My fingers have taken on their own will,
begging me to allow them to create.
Ten little sparks,
itching to create a roaring fire.
But my pen is empty.
No sadness,
not much pain,
and therefore no ink.
Smiles, Laughter,
starry eyes
don't make words.
How then, do I appease such digits,
longing to write?
Hy heart's content,
my fingers restless.
You have taken permanent residence in my mind
(so it would seem)
thoughts invaded-
paper blank.
The artist mourns,
the lover rejoices,
the being-
torn.
Happy.
Cherished.
And yet they reach- .
(., for the poem must end.)