` Tarnished Words`
Lately, my words have been feeling a bit unpolished, like that old wooden box of vintage cutlery that's hardly ever used
Those words that once flowed from my pen so easily are starting to have no luster or shame, they're just telling me to come back later; that ink is beginning to dry up, just like those thoughts that once meandered through my premonitions
Toiling with my inspirations as if they were some sort of sarcastic affliction, notifying me of the demise of those syllables I so desperately chase to count
That poetic ink that once flowed from my pen for yearning minds to comprehend is now just dulling tarnished words on a page of textile devoid of poetic coherence
-sjbeaux
Art - Karyn Robinson
- thoughts -
I always feel that my poetry must be scaled with descriptions derived from its source, such in a way that you can hear the words slithering through the grass, vines, and leaves of the page it's written upon. It must be variegated, and if its inspiration operates in colorless realms, it must emit the grey mists and bright blankness's of the depths of that those words were begotten, feeling as if each word written must glisten with poetic imagery.
Knowing that without description, without imagery, no poem can function, without luster that poetry will be even more leaden, bogged down by the pale, shapeless weight of its artistic source, like a log overtaken by ghostly fungi sinking into a bog, just colorless and devoid of an illuminated spirit, just tarnished words on a piece of paper.
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