dot. dot. dot.

dot. dot. dot...

I’m lost in troubling thoughts, unable to
Fill a painfully void sheet of paper.
I have nothing; nothing comes into view
Ideas gone old in clouds of vapor.

The lark has sung, the ideas unheard
Ephemeral, just like moments of bliss.
The pen fails to transpose my thoughts to words
And they fade away like a goodbye kiss.

To write your inner feelings on a page,
Exposing them to anger and critics,
Dissuades a dreamer to show his rage
For men judge your art, and your politics.

As time ticks on, I sit and find out why,
A good poem is so hard to come by.