Soliloquy of A Death Craving Hermit

Slough of Despond; the worst place in the world and I can't be anywhere but there with my writer's block...

2:45 AM; everything around seems so quiet except for the klat-klat-klat noise of typing on the keyboard, fast yet barely keeping pace with the over-flowing thoughts. Out of sheer boredom taking this job of writing "something" is seemingly turning a palliative. But I know after a few lines I will run out of anything worth writing.

I wrote a couple of verses tonight. And I attended alone their funeral with the feeling of burying stillbirth and buried them with my own hands. They are all six feet under amid some heap of domestic garbage.

Finally there there! An anticipated reply from some high-brow editor. To my dismay... all the same. "We are very grateful to you that you've sent us your work to consider. Unfortunately due to a huge number of submission we cannot publish it this time." There are other poets in the world I have to understand. An euphemism for my mediocre poetry.

I struggled to wade through some pages of Ulysses and finally gave up being bored with my lack of knowledge of Irish things. I am thinking of taking up the book again when I finish this monologue.

My guitar is standing over there. Chipped away here and there and with rusted strings, she is keeping up the old habbit of tempting me silently. A solo is echoing somewhere in a blank compartment of my head and if I spare some sweat tonight I may reverberate the melody upon those strings.

People say they learn everyday but I say my knowledge is receding day by day. There were heydays! I could write a bundle of pages and now...it's only a line or two...

I've managed to write "something" I don't know if readable or not. Memento mori! My internet is slowing down. So is my mind; lazying around the same old thoughts. There is an old saying that "the grass is always greener on the other side". I never grasped it until I found how much jealous I'm these days of some articles in The Guardian. The ones praising published authors in the contemporary genre. Writing is the most easiest work; just idling away, doing nothing and vomiting some high-brow passages on some hundred-two hundred pages. But now I've grasped. You have to go through some ups and downs before you can write anything eligible to read. People love to hear what life can be outside their reach. They are not interested in the same old life they lead everyday. They seek some "escapism" and it's a cliched word some people think related to Bohemianism. It's a waste of time they think. So long blind-folded horses!


I'm doubtful. My poetry is dying. Or is it licking its wounds in some bolt-hole I haven't discovered? I've been behaving very mercenary these days. Thinking of life and how it works with money. I'm going to lie awake another night thinking of growing up, getting a job, marrying someone, begetting children, growing gray, getting pension and dying some day from a heart-attack in my sleep....

More's the pity, I no longer think of a word that rhymes with "poetry"

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Poetry and story is needed. Some of us need the word to feel peace and comfort. I tell all people need to write down story of family members who have left us before they become lost in the breezes. I like this poem. You went in many directions. Life is simple. A wise person allow life to fall into place. Good people will be rewarded. Love bring love. Hate will bring disappointment. A strong ending to a excellent poem.
Coyote

[ErinLovesYou<3]

Everyone gets writers block now in then. Don't worry, you're not alone there are many others going through the same exasperation as you are. Just keep your chin up and pull on through, you're writing never ceases to amaze me. Don't give up!