The Writer Who Doesn’t Write

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So many words in my mouth
That don’t come out,
When there is so much to say,
I choose to obey
My lethargic mind
That tries to find
Reasons to not pick up my pen,
While all my men
Wait for a story
Around a campfire of glory,
That were to put me on a map,
But I carry a mishap
That comes with a cost –
What if I am lost
In my own tale?
And trying to fail
Every test I had set out on?
Maybe there is a dawn
At the end of the night,
And fine, it might even speak of light
But I don’t care
For I have tried
To gallop and sighed,
It isn’t me,
You see,
But the people around
Who shut my sound,
And leave me speechless.
Yes, I am a mess,
My body complies
To the lies
My brain tells,
My heart dwells
In a distant land,
Amongst the sand
My palms can’t hold,
So bold
Of me to chase love,
Where the brave fall from up above,
When they burn their wings
And break those things
That cannot be broken.
While all my thoughts,
Every incomplete idea rots
And rusts on a paper,
Waiting for their maker.

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