mythoughtspill.com

It’s World Poetry Day, apparently. I meant to write a few in the last week, but as my head space is more tangled than my earphones, I have no literary delights to offer this morning. I blame my lack of sleep and the not strong enough coffee I’m sipping. It’s a tragedy, but as they say, today’s tragedy is tomorrow’s ….whatever. We’ll find out. In the meantime, I will leave you with a piece I managed to scribble a while back when my muse still liked me. Enjoy it while I try to work on the strings in my head. Oh, and keep writing.

A poem begins, a flicker, a spark,
A whisper of words emerged from the dark.
Ink meets the page — a dance, a fight,
Between restless thought and dawning light.

The first line stumbles, awkward and shy,
Yet, it dares to exist, though it knows not why.
It reaches for rhythm, for meaning, for grace,
Seeking a truth it struggles to face.

Metaphors wander, untamed and wild,
Some sharp and profound, others beguiled.
Each stanza a puzzle, each rhyme a key,
Unlocking a world, only poets can see.

The pen hesitates — what if it’s wrong?
What if the verses don’t quite belong?
But poetry breathes in courage and doubt,
And finds its voice when the fear spills out.

By the final line, the chaos is tamed,
The wild thoughts gathered, the imagery framed.
A poem now stands where silence once grew —
A mirror of me and a window to you.