Long-title-itus Strikes Again

Yet another long title.
This one is called:

Too Many Artists At The Pool Of Inspiration, And Suddenly There's A Drought.

Dedicated to [x]Poetic Disaster[x].
You know why.

Skylines burn with amber auroras, enticing incentives.
I clamour for them in cold-turkey writer's block.
Steam breaths on wrinkled pages, furrowed with age;
my ink insecurities of adolescence, my only companion.
Heavy as shadows and shackled like uncaged birds,
my petrified poetry is the daemon of my existence.
Innoculated from exorcism and persistent in
carving pot-holes to trip my journey on.
I'm squatted by the road side, patiently nursing another
stone-carved scar that creates blood-jewels on my knee.
I hope that's just another highwayman on the horizon.
One more remnant of jaded historical literacy
would curl my scrapbook diaries to ash.

We're all illiterate beggars crowding the gutters, but
some of us prefer to cluster our time with star-pocked art.
Canvases of night are too repetitious in their morbid
insistence to cloak the world in a twelve hour depression.
I'm training my eyes to decipher the first cautious flicks of dawn.
Optimism for the hopeless in tear-shaped vials of truth.
I can buy myself out of this existence if I capture enough.
Dream-catcher nets were always my only weapon in life
and they begin to fray with the strains of seizing angst.
And my scars are healing over. New tomorrows beneath my skin.
There's a promise against my pulse, a stuttering assurance.
It tells me one day we'll raise a cardboard civilisation from this
and the pock-marks in our poetry will be the candles in the night sky.

Skylines burn with amber auroras, enticing incentives.
I clamour for them in cold-turkey writer's block.
Steam breaths on wrinkled pages, furrowed with age;
my ink insecurities of adolescence, my only companion.
That was a good begining to the poem, it set the mood really well. For some reason it makes me think of the woods on a summer night as the setting.

Heavy as shadows and shackled like uncaged birds,
my petrified poetry is the daemon of my existence.
Innoculated from exorcism and persistent in
carving pot-holes to trip my journey on.
I'm squatted by the road side, patiently nursing another
stone-carved scar that creates blood-jewels on my knee.
I hope that's just another highwayman on the horizon.
I love continuos metaphors, the idea of a trip or journey and comparing that to the process of writing poems was a good metaphor. I didn't quite get the stone-carved Scars metaphor in it's surrounding context, I would have kept with the theme of that stanza.

One more remnant of jaded historical literacy
would curl my scrapbook diaries to ash.

that was a good way to end that Stanza and Trasition into the next

We're all illiterate beggars crowding the gutters, but
some of us prefer to cluster our time with star-pocked art.
Canvases of night are too repetitious in their morbid
insistence to cloak the world in a twelve hour depression.
I'm training my eyes to decipher the first cautious flicks of dawn.

Comparing Inspirtation and Lack of it to Day and Night was intersting.
Optimism for the hopeless in tear-shaped vials of truth.
I can buy myself out of this existence if I capture enough.
Dream-catcher nets were always my only weapon in life
and they begin to fray with the strains of seizing angst.
And my scars are healing over. New tomorrows beneath my skin.
There's a promise against my pulse, a stuttering assurance.
It tells me one day we'll raise a cardboard civilisation from this
and the pock-marks in our poetry will be the candles in the night sky.
I liked the 'happy' ending, saying that inspiration comes with time, candles in the night Sky was a pretty metaphorical term.


I would be great if no one would shoot me for assessing a poem this time....

Oh dear lord, you're incredible. Yes, she deserves it much <3

Wow, that was really brilliantly beautiful. [x]Poetic Disaster[x] should be proud to have such a poem dedicated to her.

That was fantastic! Good job.

I love it

And yes, Miss Inari, you seem to be suffering with a condition called long-title-itus, but can not be cured unless we take away your fabulous muse. And we can't do that, can we now?

It's amazing- and as a good friend of mine would say- uber

Thank you guys.

one of the few times I finished one of your poems

your form makes it hard to read every time, but it's a signature of you

and it was incredible, it was beautiful, I'm amazed that you can write so well with that kind of inspiration

sorry, but you're writing about writing about teen angst....but then again you did it well

100/100

It's cool.
And I love your titles.

Thank you!!!!