Taking up the pen in my trepid hand,
I etch the whirlpool of raw emotions,
swirling through my mind but the page remains
unscathed save a few scratches, here and there!
Perhaps the ink has run dry at long last,
like an artery that has lost the heart,
no throbbing or pulsating from behind,
like a river stopped by the winter’s wind!
Well, there is no one else to blame but me,
was it not I who gambled with my Poetry!
So, my Muse with a broken heart did leave,
what we want is the thing we ought to give!
None can hurt me unless I let them to
you cannot fill a cup, which is already full!