Denied By Brando Lars

Though I try to duplicate the elegant melancholy I read in poetry I find myself writing always ends lackluster.
After reading a poem I am always compelled to pick up a pen, a mighty purveyor of 
thought and dream
However the page in front of me teases and ridicules me
Staring at me, empty and foreboding
Trying to put pen to paper and not finish with something tawdry
Finish with something original
That does read like, it was written by an emotional high school boy
Caught up in his own torment and trials.
After 5 minutes of staring a the page, I give up
Duties and obligations call, so I put my pen down and get on with my day.
Knowing damn well that the words are still inside me trapped
Unable to gain their freedom
Due to a faulty synaptic connection, in my skull.
Which prevents me from verbalizing my feelings and concerns.
So I walk away, frustrated
Leaving a white piece of paper and a pen on a table.
Gleefully staring at me escape
Smug in it’s confirmation of my illiteracy.


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