The Prodigal Writer
Something I wrote years back. This is how I feel about myself everytime I approach a blank piece of paper (or an empty Word Document workspace), and the blank remains blank...the empty remains as such.
The Prodigal Writer
I stowed away for some time
Leaving the scribbles behind
Crumpled the papers
And left the pen in silence
Then I was treading back
Barefooted, empty-handed
Distressed from noisy confusion
Beaten up by my self-inflicted monsters
Hungry of thoughts
I am treading back home
In reading between the lines
In the world of ink and paper
The cradle of the conscious and the thinkers
Where the mind speaks out louder than the mouth does
I turned my back to you
But never burned the bridge behind
I implore...open your arms back
For this writer in me was dead and is alive again
... Was lost and is found.
Copyright 2007 Lou Natalie Pugay
All rights reserved.
No part of this poem may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission from the author.
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