Sometimes I try too hard to write.
The page is fresh and full of possibility.
My hands are warm, poised over the keys.
The cursor blinks out its endless rhythm.
Waiting, always waiting.
It must be ever-patient,
For at times I have spent hours in this position.
It is always the same:
My brow furrows,
My mouth curls into that concentrated scowl
And all my senses focus
On loosing the flow of genius
Which surely lurks just below the surface
Of my temporary mediocrity.
I have heard of poets
Who locked themselves in their studies
With only pen and paper,
And perhaps a glass of water,
For days on end.
Perhaps they thought if they waited long enough
The poetry would surrender
And crawl, emaciated, from its hiding place
To be swiftly chained onto paper.
My poetry, alas, seems to be made of stronger stuff
I suspect it has found some other way
Of supporting itself.
Perhaps in some well-concealed spot inside me
There is a small farm
With tall rows of wheat and corn,
And a few cows and chickens in the dairy.
There is a well and a trickling brook,
And in the evenings the sun dies
In a blaze of glory over the trout pond.
A gentle plume of smoke rises
From the farmhouse where my poetry lives
Content in its solitude
And amused by my clumsy attempts
To draw it out.
Meanwhile, I grind my teeth
And stare at the screen,
Hoping it will give in soon.
Dinner is almost ready,
And I am very hungry.
wrote that tonight...i amuse myself by thinking random little thoughtlings like that.
i smell sexy now, with him all over me. if i close my eyes it's like he's there beside me.