Strolling through the forest
with my journeyed pen,
searching this darkened
corner of my mind again,
for a tree that looks ready
to provide some fruit for me.
The fruit needs to be juicy.
So I can shake it free, to let it flow
across my lips, down to my charred heart.
My burning throat. Parched,
dry as a bone sat in the desert heat.
It needs to be replenished,
by something sweet. Relishing the feeling
as it cools my blistered lips.
Strolling through the forest
with my humble pen,
notepad open
but only empty pages showing.
No fruit could I spy,
so now I search low and high.
Maybe if I'm quiet inspiration
will just walk by.
I need to confess, I'm craving
Some sweetness to cut through
this bitter taste that coats my lips.
The fourth wall collapses in front of me,
as I scramble to rebuild, I attest that
the fruit is a metaphor for poetry,
and my brain is almost empty
needing to be refilled.
For my mind sits away somewhere.
Silent, except for the weeping
drifting across the stale air.
The words are hiding somewhere
behind the trees it seems.
But wait... Is that a noose hanging
from the nearby tree?
Am I walking into dangerous territory,
or are the branches just taunting me?
By talking about writing my poetry,
am I angering the words within?
Like a magician explaining his tricks,
or an author spoiling his own story.
If I entertain these thoughts,
will my voice fail me.
Will I clog up my throat,
on the skin of some rotten fruit,
jagged barbs lodging tightly?
What if my well ceases to refill?
How will I be able to stay healthy?
Is this the tree of mental blockage?
The one that bears the most tempting fruit,
but when you take a bite,
it devours you internally,
sapping your energy
and mentally entrapping you
mind left forever empty.
Thanks for reading
Follow this link for more.
https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff
You can find my New books
"Tales from the 44A" and "Stations
here
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DBKXPN13/
and here
continue to do this.
Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle
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