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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Nature · #821333
What was wild is now wasteland
I long for the landscape
of my younger days.
At the time,
paper was a wilderness
of possibility.
I could look at each new piece
and passionately sketch
the craggy outlines of
towering new love mountains
or dive my pen deep
into some abyss of
abstract angst at the
bottom of an ocean.
I had the freedom to traipse
through the college-ruled forest
of a notebook
because its secret leaves
would hide me from
the blaring glare of criticism
while still allowing me
to bask in delicate shafts
of sunlight inspiration.

Where was that wild terrain?
Ironic that now,
when life seems more suited
for sophisticated exploration,
is the time that pages are
but flat white deserts
where the will to write
drifts into low dusty hills.
At best, my pens gouge
the sand of expression
like sticks...
quite futile when reality
blows dry and fierce.
I almost pray for
the storm clouds of
drama and emotion.
At least my tears
might be sufficient rain
to forge soggy,
ink-soaked irrigation lines
through past attempts
at changing the scenery...
creating fertile ground
for a verse oasis.

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