blank as a wall

tonight i struggle to write a poem just to flex my poetic muscles again, if there truly exists such a term.

i kept staring at the blank walls as blank as my thoughts. i kept turning my head towards the ceiling with the hope that a grand revelation would unfold from the heavens and play a cosmic movie before my wretched soul.

pause. stop. uhm, wretched mind?

nope, its too much of an exaggeration, even for my extravagant tastes. i have neither a wretched soul nor a wretched mind. yes, i am guilty of an occasional sin or two, but i don't think it would qualify me as being wretched, nuh-uh.

i could go on, blowing up things with grand words. but the point of the matter is, words seem to have left me. poetic words, that is; or the ability to construct them in such a way that the juxtaposition of said words would attain a much refined quality than just mere whining, the way this entry is turning out to be.

oh how i miss those days when i can just turn in a splendid imagery with just a flick of a wrist; the way royalty would order hordes of attendants to quivering submission to do their whims.

i miss writing poems. it seems that tonight, no massive amount of wrist-flicking would call my muse back; for she has wandered deep into the woods, it seems, in the years that i neglected her, and left me the ailing poet.