What happens to the words we never say?
I’m trying to be understood
and all my words seem far too small today
to form anything close to good.
A tiny thought soon becomes overwhelmed
by the magnitude of the sea
so that I will no longer feel compelled
to pour these words right out of me.
Uninspired, then soon unmotivated
I dam the river with dead wood;
never to see this thought celebrated
or form anything close to good.
Not quite the dreaded writer’s block. Just the idea that everything can feel inconsequential, shouting into the void. At the time of writing this, I feel like I have read 100 uninspired poems that trigger nothing in me. I purged them from my ‘to-be-read’ folder. At other times, I would have found something within each of them that may have given me some new formation of ideas.
I’ll not stop looking, though. But that’s a different poem.
“my words seem far too small” is linked to the author Jae Rose. I have a feeling I found the first line from elsewhere, too, but I no longer recall where.
1994ever 