Melodramatic

In the confines of my room, I search for inspiration.

Flipping through the pages of my memory,

I let my mind wander.

In this emptiness, I dig for filling,

looking for what I’ve been missing.

I try making something out of nothing,

but only ending up with air.

The air is thin, not thick,

and I shiver from lack of substance.

I try to be poignant, but end up sounding

melodramatic.

Relentless, I wrack my closet for answers.

Coming up with nothing but fragments

of what could be,

I sigh.

I reflect on past reflections,

on past promises and resolves,

wondering where I went wrong.

Still, in the confines of my room,

once again I search for inspiration,

cursing myself with this routine of

repitition.

I try to be poignant, but end up sounding

melodramatic.

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Notes: (Sigh). Not sure where that came from. I’ve been reading a couple of deep pieces here at fictionpress, and I just wanted to write something real. I feel like all I write is wasteless fluff (if you’re not sure, go to my account at … you’ll see what I mean). This poem kind of vents my frustrations on trying to write something with substance, but not sure what, exactly. I always seem to get a lead that always falls through.

Well, enough of my rambling. ‘Til next piece.

Written: July 25