This is wonderful, and I know that feeling well. The fickle muse has abandoned me lately. The last stanza is so telling. I hate to read something after so many thoughtful comments have been made because all of the good stuff has usually been said, and this is no different.
Passions beyond expression tend to be seen in such a romantic light...
yet, to find oneself bursting with passion and being incapable of expressing it...that isn't romantic in the least.
It's horrifying.
I believe the repetition lent the feeling of desperation to the piece...this is something that's been turned over in the mind so often that it's ingrained...
inescapable.
This is a perfect description of fragile inspiration.
Like rain through my fingers.
Sometimes, it really does feel that desperate. Trying to grasp the words as they escape; not wanting to feel empty.
And then I like this idea of the "you" for the inspiration.
"Perhaps its time
cast the paper on to the fire
throw the pens away"
It feels like that sometimes; maybe the words were happier before they were written down?
Submission Name: Rain Through My Fingers
