Your Poetry Dot Com - Creation Quest

Array ( [sid] => 45677 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Creation Quest [time] => 2004-05-01 03:56:53 [hometext] => Also titled 'Words and Music by'. Songwriters block. [bodytext] => Here I am in perpetual search
this driving pang of want is rising
superflously I try an expell my desire and
dreams are swift and fleeting these thoughts
that rise and fall like my chest,
inhale
exhale
existentialism I cannot bring to fruit, it is slipping
slithering too slimey to grip with
these large hands, like arthritic stumps.
I hear the drums, alas no beat to inspire
so much as cacophony in my matter
translates into blank pages by the ton.
when once my youth hath filled mine eyes
with dillusions of grandeure, they now crash
upon the darkness left undone with feeling
felt so hard and coarse like a crown of thorns.
No, it's not like it was nor will ever be
I realize now more over later it is a good thing.
Being twenty seven almost twenty eight,
I am not at all a loss, wasting time on an art
which shall never bring me fruit. [comments] => 4 [counter] => 225 [topic] => 60 [informant] => Loyalist [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 14 [ratings] => 3 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => insomniac ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Creation Quest

Creation Quest
Date: Saturday, 1st May 2004 @ 03:56:53 AM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: Loyalist

Here I am in perpetual search
this driving pang of want is rising
superflously I try an expell my desire and
dreams are swift and fleeting these thoughts
that rise and fall like my chest,
inhale
exhale
existentialism I cannot bring to fruit, it is slipping
slithering too slimey to grip with
these large hands, like arthritic stumps.
I hear the drums, alas no beat to inspire
so much as cacophony in my matter
translates into blank pages by the ton.
when once my youth hath filled mine eyes
with dillusions of grandeure, they now crash
upon the darkness left undone with feeling
felt so hard and coarse like a crown of thorns.
No, it's not like it was nor will ever be
I realize now more over later it is a good thing.
Being twenty seven almost twenty eight,
I am not at all a loss, wasting time on an art
which shall never bring me fruit.

This poem is Copyright © Loyalist

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