Poet’s Block

I want the words kowtowed
as though I am their master,
to wait upon my wanderings,
from pensive thoughts
to manic musings.

I want the words at bay,
whether morn’ or 4 P.M.,
a team of doctors forever
on the call to diagnose
the latest mental stage.

But they arrive
like reveling butterflies
of Spring —

And just as quickly
flutter off to dancing leaves
of Fall —

If I can’t write tonight, then I can at least complain about the writing process. A lighter piece amidst all the heavier reflections of life changes in the past couple months.


Tell Me Somethin'

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