I've never once bedecked these vast poetic halls
With anything but all my heart has held.
By labouring through nights, I've wrung my soul and scrawled
To leave these poisonous thoughts and hate expelled.
Each grain of seed that's planted always seems to rot -
The ailing sun is swaddled by the clouds -
And every arrow loosed becomes a crooked shot,
While peace is swallowed by the raucous crowds.
My sanity is plagued with thoughts of dying words:
When all the lines I write begin to fade.
Delinquent minds can leave our hopes and dreams interred,
And overuse will leave a damaged blade.
Until that time, I'll write with blood from open wounds,
And sharpen up my quill on bones exposed;
The parchments that are left can decorate my tomb,
Despite my verse becoming broken prose.
The author has beautifully blended a great mixture of tones and textures in this piece. The flow is wonderfully smooth. Along with the flow of the poem, the rhyming is well done, not at all feeling forced or exerted upon.
While I am unsure if this poem is about certain kinds of unsettling feelings the poet feels or wishes to portray, or is it about some kind of dissatisfaction or incompleteness in one's own writing, I personally feel that whatever it might be, whatever might be reasons for making the poet pen this, this poem is nothing less than beautiful. Well done and congratulations.
wow what a deep and awakening poem. i love you expressed every writer's fear in stanza 3, yet showed your passion in stanza 1. this poem to me relates the painful passion and love for writing. the necessity to let emotion out. thank you Mr Pickard INSPIRATIONAL