The Grey Months

This poem was written so the crazy people who enjoy my poetry get a look inside my head. It's a dark place sometimes.

The Grey Months

Alas! The Grey Months are approaching.

I sense them looming on my mind’s horizon.

And I tremble as they smother my imagination.

For The Grey Months are coming

A time when my inspiration falls

The flame flickers and dies

Swamped by the dreariness of failure.

The months when Octaboona cannot write

His emotions can’t find their thoughts

Nor the thoughts their words.

My soul abandoned on barren plains

Bereft of poetry.

Where I do not listen to the world

But try and invent one.

Trapped behind mundane bars

Guarded by The Sentinels

Who suppress my emotion

Dismember my thoughts

And shatter my spirit.

The books are burnt

Reduced to heaps of ash

That scatter in the wind

That blows in The Grey Months

The sky of my mind is overcast

With swollen blackened clouds

That overcast any seeds

That try to grow.

My imagination rots

A putrid, musty thing

Encased in the dust

Of inactivity.

Yet all it takes is a spark

To power up my brain

The thoughts flow in torrents

As my mind lights up

A shining beacon of splendour

That grows and inspires.

Yet The Grey Months

Banished to a dark corner

Wait patiently

For their return.