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Blood And Ink Drip

Vowels linger in the back of your mind,
while consonants lack a foundation.
And the page taunts with its virgin white,
changing doldrums into frustration.

Ideas trip and fall over each other,
hopelessly failing to realign anew.
And sparks of inspiration are doused,
despite efforts to salvage a few.

With the pen poised just above the page,
wit precariously hangs from its tip.
And as blood and ink drip and mingle,
you realize you've bitten your lip.

You feel your muse has abandoned you,
as thoughts disintegrate like vapor.
And all you can do is just sit there,
and stare down at unblemished paper.
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Submitted on July 12, 2012

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Emile Pinet Claim this poet

I was born in a small town, (Bathurst) New Brunswick, Canada,. The third eldest of thirteen children, ten girls and three boys. I’m the product of a semi-dysfunctional family, brought up by a controlling, physically abusive father, verses a loving mother. Many of my poems reflect the uniqueness and special circumstances of my upbringing. more…

All Emile Pinet poems | Emile Pinet Books

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