August 21 by The Running Son
☀1st writers block poem (in a series)☀
I can’t seem to scribe a thing! The muses have gathered
their skirts together, made high-time
for the border of my ability
to order and sort my
so fleeting, or
that, in hindsight, is worth my reread, or even worth repeating.
I am reeling. Spinning like a top in full wobble, in real trouble.
She gave me vision—a simplified mission.
Then in a second’s time I was
hobbled, double tied,
pushed aside to
spin dry with
why I was left crying out apologies, and guessing into silence.
Ever loved truly? I have. I didn’t know I had the ability; thought
I was broken, useless, a third rate
commodity living a token life,
hate and a
making callouses form where pain was first conceived, then born.
But 2013 was not normal. It was the year for forming a spiritual
porthole across ego gorges, and past
great granite formations of
petrified thought and
This year God, (or
the already fractured shell preventing me from being born to myself.
I have wealth. New energy comes from within, as does new skin.
I have felt that certain universal sense
of completeness the mystics
talk about, and dealt
with my demons;
at the mouth while capturing, in poems, any devils that come out.
Now, everything feels dull, wrung out. My whole future’s on hold.
Having newly uprooted from the desert
where muses danced ’round me
to tunes emanating from
nowhere, I feel old;
but I refuse
to fold, or
out to the salty coastal coaxing to rust up, lay down, and play broken.
by Jim Aldrich
very confused, girl.
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.