Rot (Or: A Bad Writing Day) ©By Vijaya Sundaram April 5, 2013
Inspiration does not come
It does not come
It does not.
It stays away, like a child
Unwilling to play.
Ideas elude me.
They elude me.
They elude … me,
Like those dreams I pursue
Into the vanishing dark.
My songs are stilled,
I have no songs.
No songs.
Silence fills my ears,
Loudly boxing my eardrums.
Words fail me now.
They fail me.
They fail … me.
And I am left with nothing,
Nothing but words that mean nothing at all.
If this continues tomorrow,
And the day after,
And the day after that,
I might as well die.
And then, resurrecting, write about that.
Or, failing that,
I will fly away from here.
Fly far, far away, hoping.
Never to return.
Or, maybe not.
Perhaps, I’ll moulder like leaves
On the silent forest floor,
Richly rotting and feeding
The soil, from which
Other things will grow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
P.S. This is the poem I had written (and then lost) on April 5th, so I ended up writing a journal-entry-type post that day. I have backdated this one’s “publish” date to April 5th (even if it is April 10th today)