Poems in December

I've been writing a lot of poetry lately. I guess I find December to be a poetic month. Not in the way that you would think of spring or fall being poetic - more in it's own, unique sort of anticipation.

Here's one poem, which I'm sure many authors could identify with. I will be back with more shortly.

This Paper

 

New journeys, new ventures, new things to behold:

Stories upon stories that nobody’s told,

Hearts are laid barren upon wasted slate.

Words, they pour forth, but they all come too late.

Too many times, as I wander here

I have felt the cursed claws of fate.

They dig and scratch and hold me back,

The passions of ambition crack.

Yearning to live, to help create -

I am the one who I berate.

Life’s far away, once felt so near -

Myself that I’ve begun to hate.

What happened, when I used to write?

The words that fall like stars tonight

And burn until I separate

From the world I infuriate.

My breath too shallow now to hear -

My paper I incinerate.

This paper I incinerate.