Empty Glass

Empty Glass short poem

Photo by this lyre lark

I’ve felt much worse, but when I realised
how long I’ve been staring
at this blank white page
without having my fingers moving,
tapping on alphabets like it does before
when I want it to, I saw a man
who could say nothing but silence, slowly
sinking into stagnant sea he called his life.
Sometimes by mistake they do deliver it to me
word by word, and I am a grateful servant,
a typewriter made of flesh,
better than a beggar I am right now.
As night crawls deeper the stronger
disappointment is persuading, pulling me
deep into sleep. But the bright canvas
lending its light into the bedroom
keeps on waking me up in the dark,
while whispering, not yet. Not yet.
So to kill the insulting guilt,
on how easily I am defeated
by the void that has claimed my mind,
mercilessly swallowing sentences
and drowning uninspired inspirations,
I keep on writing for you my dear
about how I can’t write tonight.

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of
avatar
wpDiscuz

Spotted In Glass

Spotted In Glass short poem

Perfect bridges for a fading light taking you to dark caves like fireclay in fake sorrows. The superstition of a race pool and unearthing the sacred temple under a mount of lies. In vitro a baby god sleeps waiting for

Broken Glass

Broken Glass prose poem

BROKEN GLASS Standing here in front of me Are many pieces before me Looking down all I see Are different colored pieces Of what was me Broken, shattered and scattered Use to resemble me The glass I see before me

The Empty Chair

The Empty Chair short poem

The echo of my footsteps As I walk past the porch, The creaking of the rocker As the breeze gives it a life. Tell me a story chair, Of all that you have seen: Boys and girls on their bikes,

The Empty Chair

The Empty Chair short poem

The echo of my footsteps As I walk past the porch. The creaking of the rocker As the breeze gives it a push. Tell me a story chair, Of all that you have seen: Boys and girls on their bikes,

The Man In The Glass

The Man In The Glass prose poem

Looking in the glass I saw a fine young man Was it him only I was searching for a long span He never laughed at me when I cried He always smiled at me when I smiled He stood with