coldmocha.com

Words used to come so easily
To the tips of my fingers
And slip onto the page
Creating their own legacy.

Now, it just doesn’t come,
The well has dried up
And it has to be squeezed out
Drop by tiny drop.

But I was a wordsmith once,
Wasn’t I?
It was my trade,
Through it I lived.

But now,
Nothing.

Sometimes a word or two,
But nothing connects them.
Just the random ramblings
Of a veteran dreamer.

But these words are mine,
They are for me to see
Like an enchanted mirror
They echo my thoughts.
There needs to be outlet
And this is mine.

Don’t pity me
And please don’t judge me.
I may seem profound
Or wanting you to think I’m cool.
But listen carefully,
Through all that nonsense
And the showmanship,
Open your ears and your heart to
Those slight mutterings,
The words I mumble
That I am Humble.

Humble.