The ink falls dry upon the page

I have no voice to own this stage

words I seek now ill defined:

shackled beats in cloistered mind.

I hear the call of phrase unborn,

the struggled cries, their rise forlorn.

Fractured sentance, splintered verse

they damn my pen with voice perverse.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Hadnt written anything I considered of any worth for a few weeks, so let my frustrations loose in this.

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allets's picture

Fractured Sentences

Pretty good description of poetry - I shall go forth and write fractured verses - :D



sweetwater's picture

My verses had become so

My verses had become so fractured I would need some very strong glue to repair their meaning! I hope yours turn out much better, I'm certain they would :-) Sue.

allets's picture

True For All Writers

"...I hear the call of phrase unborn,..." This line says so much of what we do. It is a search, a voyage, and a reporting of what we find using words as tools marginally capable of executing the task of naming the sublime. :D