It Was Once Beautiful (Now it's Dead)

My tongue has gone numb
it seems lately I've been struck dumb
or even just kept my piece quiet
because I don't have anything to say, well not quite.
You see my mind doesn't work the way that it used to
it was left to wallow in the pools of poetic limbo
and it grew fat and lazy, with no thought of tempo,
or beat, or how twenty lines can mean the world
to just one person no matter how timid or bold.
You see, I expected that someone might notice
that this wound rent in my rhythmic being needed a poultice,
and lately I just can't focus, it's just a jumbled mess
that the rest may call poetry but to me it seems less,
not perfect, like a beautiful woman in a ragged dress...

You see I speak my mind on these pages and you're turning
each page wondering what I might say next, yearning,
burning, and maybe learning how I think, how I breathe
how my emotions feed on my fingers,
how each thought lingers
and finds meaning...to me that is, because in reality
no one opinion matters when the ink runs dry.

I have pages stuccoed in my head and they are all blank,
or crumbling because there is no one to thank...
is that poetic? Is it even a complete thought?
Do we all really think about what we write, is it a spark?
Sometimes my fingers fly over keys, scribble letters,
or my lips move to a cadence of something unheard to others.

I can't write what I feel anymore because emptiness
isn't a feeling that can take shape on a page
and be made something solid that people understand.
I have everything I wanted, and yet my hands tremble
at the thought of holding one thing so dear to me
that may break with the slightest touch.

Is a heart so delicate that one may never touch it,
or is it the hand that is so rugged that it
knows no restraint.

just thought I might rant a little at myself,
but please draw your own conclusions
to the meaning of my babble.

God knows I'd like some insight.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved