Writers Block

Blank pages stare back at me,
lines left untended,
sounds found wanting.

heart beat relentless,
demanding attention in rhythm,
like the passing of many days.

Struggle though I may,
there is little comfort here
in places of ticking grey.

Passion may pulse to and fro
but my fingers are troublesome
and lack the courage
to keep better company.

Minor reflections of hidden sights
echo in quiet places disturbed
if only for a little while.

My soul stares back at me,
melodies of autumn caught,
like leaves stained yellow.

And though the sound is familiar,
unwanted it remains.

Explanation
There have been three blank pages of music staring back at me for two weeks now. Though there is an abundance of arpeggio laden compositions singing out in this house, none have merited the approval of physical existence. Relapsed into Warholisms, I can not bare to hold my soul laden songs trapped in written form. But free to coalesce and recreate, they change in seasons with every telling. And sometimes, some melodies can only be played once for those who happen to be listening.