Pollen slowly flutters, from the softly swaying flowers. The rhythm of the wind, seems to breathe out my desires. Gentle beating of my heart seems to set it's pace, As lovely little memories slowly trickle into place.
A song breathes within my soul, that only the earth can hear Dew hangs off of a low branch, mocking my last tears The twinkle in your eye shines brighter than the stars A company of roses mend up my broken heart.
A pond covered in lily pads, ripples so silently Mesmerizing butterflies drift past, oh so lazily Reminding me of the things that I love the most Sadly, the things my heart shall never host.
I use to be able to just write. It doesn't just come anymore.
Stephen King is a good example. I think it was the work Misery that he threw in the garbage, and one day his wife found it, read it, and salvaged the book, telling him to sell it.
The Red Hot Chili Peppers is another good example. Anthony Keidis was getting rid of his poem Under The Bridge one day, when their uhm...producer or somebody found it, and had him read it in front of the band. Then the band members started playing instruments to the poem and viola.
Anyway....I loved the poem, it had great imagery and flowed very nicely. I find, when it's hard to think up something to write, just ... write. It sound stupid, but it works. Most of my work comes from just random scribblings of silly little emotional poems and stories. So maybe that will help with your inspiration and help you to get motivated about your work.
and domestic, I feel that way about a few of the lines. They just don't feel right. I changed the last line. I think it works a little better.
I do however agree. I don't know where my inspiration has gone. I have been working on this poem, revising and such for quite some time now.
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Christmas Eve
