The notebook is open, the pen, poised in hand,
The floodgates of thought thrust wide.
I could write about heroes in some distant land, of maidens and dragons and magic–oh and!
But my thoughts have gone down with the tide.
“What are you writing,” she asks with a smile.
“Oh, nothing,” I say with a sigh.
Yet, if I could keep her for just a short while, going faster and faster, one second per mile!
But “nothing,” is always my lie.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, wipes a tear from his eye.
“Just words scratched with pen,” I say.
“Well, I wouldn’t lie; it’s lovely–made me cry!”
“Thank you.” And I walk away.
“Not perfect,” she says, putting it further aside.
I nod–she won’t understand.
All my fears deep inside, all my passions, wild feelings, pored forth–she’d deride,
Holding my heart in her hand.
“A writer, you say?” He is cocking his head.
“I wanted to write once too.”
I look at my feet, my face a bit red. He does not get it, this fierce need to write, that often keeps me late out of bed.
“I suppose I liked it more than you.”
“It’s finished,” I say, “Quite ready to read.”
My smiled is wide; I stand tall.
But I spot a weed, so I cross out and erase, there’s no end to the need,
Now I’m sure I cannot write at all.
I’m still not very practiced with setting a steady rythym in my poems, but I thought I’d write this anyway. It espresses some struggles I often have as a writer, and I’m sure others have too.
Thank you for reading it 🙂