Why I Cant Write Poetry

An utterance so void,
I held on tight.
Drops of tears ran Pell mell,
Whether to soak the heart, or wet the brow

Reckless ink, spattering into forms so hollow,
Words that had renounced meaning,
and thoughts so shallow.

Buried behind the white window,
were murky blotches so viscous.
It coloured her soul,
and fastened beliefs,
that grazed into lands so fallow.

The word and the thought
Chase to the burrow.
Seeking their origins,
pondering if the word was an after-thought,
or the thought, the word’s puppeteer.

The violence of language,
the façade that are words,
deceive the thought,
Glorifying a recluse,
pronouncing him a holy ascetic or a pseudo-seer.

She knocked into her emptiness,
And the voidness resonated.
The gluttony of the words it said,
charmed her melancholy into poetry,
obscured the silence within.
Bared, flustered and unlayered.

The anarchy of the word’s conquest,
Its overcast over every thought.
Damned, in silent whispers,
To herself, she started to talk.

A word unspoken,
Is a thought unscathed?
The tongue that utters,
leaves the self unmasked.