Inspired to inspirations that strike as you lie in bed.


Writing a Poem

Thoughts and images
race
play
skip
dance
across the page,
darting
dodging
feinting
eluding
the sharp tip of your
utensil
instrument
tool
pen
as you try to catch the
picture
meaning
allusion
essence
of the very
art
sculpture
monument
poem
you have been trying to
create
finish
polish
write
for a(n)
eternity
year
period
time
that is long since
extinct
buried
dead
forgotten
with almost no chance of (a)
comeback
reintroduction
revival
returning

but that isn't true, is it?
You know that you
wrote on the clean sheet
with only one thought in mind:
cover the empty spaces,
which is why, much later,
we can find you
drawing
scribbling
defacing
doodling
on the margins and
in the spaces that words don't fill

the only true fear(/thing) an artist
has
fears
wants
possesses
is the one that
there will be empty space
between the margins,
nothing to read between the lines:
to put it simply,
everything
absence
abundance
nothing
for the reader to comprehend

so you
work
slave
diligently pursue
toil
over the blank paper,
not wanting to
scribble
draw
doodle
deface
its white cleanliness,
trying to find that perfect mix of
humor/horror
tragedy/romance
uplifting/depressing
fiction/non-fiction
that will make it all seem
important
urgent
less trivial
real
and not just you rambling

So you
trash
toss
rip
crumple
all the beginnings you've started
and decide to go to the end
foremost
out of order
numero uno
first

and you get sidetracked,
with talking about your
loss
suffering
humiliation
pain
at writing a poem,
to get sidetracked from
your impending sense of
foreboding
discomfort
alienation
doom
that you cannot create (a)
masterpiece
legible work
something
art
after all

all your ramblings
and sidetracked thoughts
lead back to the
start
beginning
first
source
and you decide to end on
the beginning,
but it's real the ending,
and you can't think of
that word which describes it,
something that starts and finishes
in the exact same way
only
you've edited out the imperfections,
and now we see the finished product

Thoughts and images
dance across the page,
eluding the sharp tip of your pen
as you try to catch the essence
of the very poem
you have been trying to write
for a time
that is long since forgotten
with almost no chance of returning