A perfect day,

but still we drank the angst

flowing from the ink of the writer’s pen,

and grow dependent on it’s useless taste

to feel these lows within humanity,

and discover depths unknown to us before.

We are failed poets, slaves to art and rhyme,

who cling to the lines of manic actors

whose whim excites for one brilliant moment,

but disappoints the next,

leaving us cold, with fever, and dazed 

from the beauty we lost. 

On this continuum of mixed emotions,

we flirt with the brinks of insanity, 

as if we had a cure for this hopeless disease,

without sedating our creativity,

this ability to dream while awake. 

Neither the sun’s warmth or a mother’s love

will alleviate the stain of our loss,

we have spun away from the center,

gravity betrayed,

and we have nothing to repair

these gross inadequacies. 

for further related reading: 

http://authspot.com/poetry/every-night-7/

http://authspot.com/poetry/art-is-in-me/

http://authspot.com/poetry/a-word-3/

http://authspot.com/poetry/writers-block-68/