Or is it,
That I had nothing to say in the first place?
The words don�t come
And the ink is nearly dry.
My mind flicks from one life to the other.
My old life of the word.
And my new life of the living.
Death holds no spell over me, not like before.
I neither want to know it,
Or care to know why.
For me it means nothing.
So is it that I�ve said everything,
To come to the place I am now?
Or is it
That I was always at this place,
But never cared to admit it?
Or even acknowledge it?
It�s somewhat boring,
The life of the living.
And I find myself missing
The life of the word.
But atleast thoughts don�t plague me,
And my magic pen has lost its power.
And the ink like I said is running dry.
The words of god?
Or the words of a man,
Who was once what he wasn�t.
Oh, did I have anything to say?
It seems looking back,
I really said nothing.
Just put pretty words
In pretty lines,
To make neat,
Pretty rhymes.
But none had meaning,
Like those words of dead men.
All lost there feeling
If they ever had any.
Is it that I�ve said all I need to say.
Or is it,
I had nothing to say in the first place.
Praise be to the writer,
Of the words that I�ve written.
For making them pointless,
So I could see�
That I really had nothing
Of interest to say
Richard