Dry Spell


I never know what
to write about
when I focus too hard.
There’s inspiration, sure,
but in shards,
and nothing comes out
sounding how I want it to.
This makes me depressed,
and I wonder
if I’ve run out of steam.
Or will I get another
sudden surge of creativity
in the next few days?
I’ll never know,
so maybe it’s not meant to be.
See what I mean?
Gleams of innocence flow
through the cracks
beneath the door,
and the floor quivers
with this new development.
I shiver, unfold,
and start up
with some spiel
about plastic abstract theory.
The room bears
a quizzical look
down upon me, but
I’m afraid I can’t
make it much clearer.
The silent fears
of a world saddled with loss.
And a gloss of summer rain
beats over the pave –

-r. miller


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