~ Dead In A Ditch ~

((So, I’ve had a bit of writer’s block lately which might explain my M.I.A. status around these parts lately. They say, “write what you know”, so…this is homage to that ‘writer’s block’. :P))

“It’s 4:00 a.m.
I’m either at home
Or somewhere dead in a ditch,”
I said.
And lately, life’s been
A real son of a bitch,
With this dial-tone
Of a glitch
Inside my crazed head.

The thoughts bounce around
And dribble out in
This ooze,
Of “Where did it go?
Will it ever come back?”

I am not a Muse;

Where did that writer’s knack
Fly to, or sink through
Those layers that make me
More than just some luke-warm,
Simple Hack?

Maybe my muse is dead,
Cold, in a ditch,
In my brain,
In my head?
Waiting for what (?)
To rescue it, or
Breathe life again
Into words I’ve written,
Or attempts you’ve read…

Is there a 9-1-1 for a poet?
Can you Dial-A-Muse
And then — Hold the phone!
Even so, it
Wouldn’t be the same
As that smooth, marble form,
Lying cold, in that ravine,
With blue skin and eyes warm.

I’ll resurrect the body!
And proclaim, “IT’S ALIVE!”
But.
I need an electric current
For the flesh to survive…
Which means I need a jump start
For the heart-beat to revive.
“Three…Two..One. CLEAR!”
Or
“Three…Two..One. CONTACT!”

It’s almost here, I can feel it,
And the fear won’t reveal it,
But the inner spark is still there,
It’s just a stone-cold fact.

It needs to feed —
To fatten on a feast of lived moments.
But more, it needs that warmth,
That my own, loving arms can’t provide;
To open those dazed, glazed eyes
Deep inside…
I wish I could somehow find
The right light switch,
To keep my muse from being defined
As just another statistic…
Off, dead in a ditch.

© ~ C.L.R. ~