Writing can be frustrating
That's when I see myself blaming
My hand.
For example right now:
It does not function somehow
Like it would be damned.
The page stays blank
Whilst my spirit sank
Offhand.
Yet maybe my hand is
Not to be blamed like this.
Yet the words themselves are
Maybe to be blamed for this war.
I want to grasp the fitting words
Yet they slip away from me, towards
the unknown.
The words grin at me
Making faces teasingly
Like it's a show.
The words play hide and seek
Yet smoothly they speak
the below:
"Dear you,
This is something
one just has to go through.
There is absolutely nothing
that can be obtained without patience.
If you won't stress yourself too much
Then we'll do everything to stay in touch
With you, to award your our obeisance."
But me, impatient as I was,
Did not quite believe in this cause.
Thus I wondered whether I'd gone crazy
- Voices speaking to a lady
Was nothing quite familiar
So in a hint of despair
I decided to let go of my writing career.
...
Well only for a day.
You know what they say:
True passion can never fade away.