I have been struggling mightily with writing and with life in general. However, today I realized that poetry can be born right out of that struggle. Writing about not wanting to write conquers writer’s block. So I hope you enjoy this poem today which is a word picture of a wrestling match I’ve been partaking in recently.

The Questions

Maybe this is my refusal to leave the tent

Maybe I’m just done

Maybe I simply have no clue

What is always going on

 

Though I have nothing left

Or so it merely seems

I still sit here amongst the place

Of all my dead and dying dreams

 

So what now?

 

What now?

 

What is to become of all this waiting?

What is the purpose of all this carbon dating ?

What water will I drink from these ancient wells

While the ocean that dwells within me has no wave nor swell?

 

The questions ripple through the waters

Yet they seem to never return

I believe they have not struck the cliffs

The mammoth rocks I’ve heard of but I have yet to see

 

The things I know are real

Are the things I never see

 

Maybe it’s time to follow the questions

They are like the homing pigeons

Always knowing where the answers live

The place my heart simply knows as home

 

Time to roam

 

With a purpose

 

I feel the call within

 

To follow

 

Yet where is the way?

Where did that ripple go?

That’s ok, I’ll just ask another question

Because there’s everything that I do not know