My Impotent Gift

My impotent gift, my barren talents,
My wasteland of a brain that once
Could be called a garden, now is dust,
And I cough,loud. Itís the only sound I make.
I used to sing, and the words were pretty,
The tunes were lavish, though no one danced
But that didnít matter back then. I was a child.
Iíve grown up now and the silence is deafening.

My impotent gift, my boorish talents
Can make me no money. So, it festers. I lay
On the empty graves of poems half written in my head,
Half written because life would snatch them away.
To be filled with screams from bosses or customers,
Sighs from my parents, lovers and friends.
My brain is crammed. Where could I even keep poems?
So, they bleed out in the sweat of my finger tips.

Poetry by Sameen
Read 49 times
Written on 2022-07-01 at 17:20

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Alan J Ripley The PoetBay support member heart!
Love the last line of this poem, Feel as though I've living
Through this. Regards Alan.

Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
This I really like. Cleverly constructed. Thank you for sharing the sweat of your finger tips! :)