i am waiting for a flash of brilliance to pregnant my mind with metaphors.
I am waiting for imagery to cloud my mind.
i am waiting for genius to strike and make things happen.
i am waiting for an inspired envy to steal someone else’s idea and make it my own.
i am waiting for something to rant about and call it poetry.
i am waiting for this false bravado to get all worked up and be poetic.
i am waiting for this clinging naivety to speak of a dream – covered scream.
i am waiting for this throbbing desperation to manifest the poet in me.
i am waiting for this hope, masked and ready to defy rules in poetry writing if there are still such rules that apply.
i am waiting for visions left not maimed by stillness.
i am waiting for despair to make its presence felt.
i am waiting for boredom to possess some appeal and impress me.
i am waiting for a heartache that’s not quick and easy to understand and accept.
i am waiting for my thirty six year old emptiness to echo my teenage angst.
i am waiting for my aging private turmoil to channel my turbulent years way past down the line.
i am waiting for obscurity to reappear and show its ugly face once more.
i am waiting for ghosts to invoke the creative spirits.
i am waiting for a life reimagined.
spare me the cold embrace of age, the comfort of love,
i am not waiting for that.
i prefer to recall the troubles of my long, lost self and nail it down to paper.
and where are the muses when you needed them ?
all bled out and dry like some barren desert ;
know that my death scars’ healing has begun.
know that to milk desperation is no piece of cake.
know that first thought, best thought never made things easy.
know that channeling words is not just a walk in the park,
i tell you —–
you wait for it.