Poetry's Cry for Help

I haven't been poetic for a while
with my mind babbling
and my hands dabbling
my life bursting at the seams
my head exploding
my schedule expanding
my ideas experimenting
all very exciting, awaiting what has yet to come

I've been less poetic recently;
the ink now takes hues
rather than remaining ebony
rather than refraining from life at all
rather than restraining my mind
and with that, my creativity

My poetry worstens daily
with my thoughts unformed
my rhymes unborn
my feelings unadorned
and my repetition is clear
and my thoughts
and rhymes
and feelings
are nonsensical, therefore unessential

Poetic elements have drained from my body
life crashes, waves upon shores
winds upon sand
river upon rock
minds collide, collaborate, argue
only further ruining the world's demeanor

Tell my if, and how, I can improve my poetry
for my acting, presentation, and recitation
all thrive upon that shore
all survive upon those sands
all depend on that rock
tell me what these words represent
what these sentences unravel
what plague has bequeathed my soul
to create such a vague nothingness

My mind, and that of others, cave from this:
a horrible excuse for poetry
unrhythmic, and excruciating
devoured by critics
depleted of all meaning
developed from a bursting mind,
bursting from nothing,
nothing being everything,
everything being life,
nothing less than what's expected

How quickly these unpoetic lines formed
into the longest poem I've ever written
nay, do I fret about the critics
I care only about the meaning
and the bursting mind
that bursts from nothing,
nothing being everything,
everything being life,
nothing less than what I expected

Tell me, if you know, what this all means





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