He writes by the window
The poet in my head
Pen flutters
Paper crumbles
Frustration comes instead
Dust moats dance in tango
To the rhythm of the scratch
Spinning high
Floating low
Never to be snatched
He aches for lines to come
And waits with head in hands
Push the block
Fight the block
Find them in the shifting sands
He beats retreat on the drum
But this wounds him to the core
Dream again
Feel again
And his pen will flow once more
Don’t worry Noodle … you will find your muse.
Mike
Or it will find me…
in the end, it matters naught
You don’t seem blocked tome…
Have you been imagining yourself eating a lot of cheese?