The ink in my pen is dammed for sure,
when inspiration no longer flows
and invading thoughts are not at all clear,
what light once beheld in darkness now folds.
Despair abounds amidst nightmares of pain.
The droughts of passions wreak only bitterness.
And the thoughts I had for a better world,
are never to be known in the face of such wickedness.
Fear what will come when the sun turns shy.
And the roses of the earth will blush no more.
Purity and faith have no place here,
as man never knew just what he killed for.
No help for a child who is born without chance
to survive in a world that’s been damned to hell.
The sins of man hath destroyed his home,
and the only sound is a tolling death knell.
Though we will regret what was torn asunder,
twill be too late to relieve our plight.
For the day of reckoning will soon be upon us,
and no path out of darkness will lead into light.
Written by,
Shelby I. Courtland
©2014 Shelby I. Courtland
Are you ready for mass starvation? Are you ready for riots in the streets? Are you ready to join the homeless? Are you ready for what’s coming?
I have never been one to harbinger bad news on a global scale or pounce on any made-up omens of events yet to unfold, but I sense an approaching storm, an impending doom and although I was not one who went out and purchased duct tape when the Homeland Terrorize the U.S. Security Agency told us that those awful gummint sponsored terrorists were coming and to keep our battery operated portable radios on to receive the latest terror alert threat, that did not worry me. However, things just ain’t looking good, not at all. I have come to a point where I have just run clean out of hope and though I wrote on another post about the fact that my pen has run dry, it actually has. https://shelbycourtland.wordpress.com/2014/01/31/i-heave-a-sigh/
When a person who writes from the heart, feels a drying up of energy, there is something to that. I can honestly say that for the first time in my life, I feel that there is absolutely nothing more that I can say that I haven’t already said. I took a look back through my own archives and I’ve covered it all. I’ve written extensively on homelessness, on poverty, on injustice everywhere, on the plight of the indigenous peoples, on the plight of those who are locked-up in for profit prisons, I have penned poem after poem about the need for action as opposed to apathy and complacency. I have moaned and groaned and displayed anger and hopelessness and helplessness and frustration and I have come to the realization that I am drained and dust is thickly settling on my poet’s pen.
Another blogger who is a poet felt the same way and he pretty much let us know that he’s also drained. And I know exactly how he feels. He is another one who feels and feels deeply and he has put down, for the moment, his poet’s pen.
I take heed of this as there is not many who can feel and channel the energy or who can feel when that energy is gone; that which gives us hope and keeps us going. When it no longer flows like the river, we heave a sigh and we droop. I am drooping. I feel a drain, a tug downward, a diminishing of energy. Is it temporary, I don’t think so and I cannot force that which will not come. I don’t write just for the sake of writing. I write because I have something to say. If there is nothing coming from my center of energy, it is because something so profoundly depressing has taken root and has repressed the flow of positive energy and any need I had of holding on to hope and has therefore, drained my pen.
Call me a pessimist, but I call myself, a realist with eyes wide open!
