The Art of Writing

By OldPoet   

Pieces of what I know sparkle like glass,
refusing to coalesce into concrete thoughts
My fingers reach the words, but fail
to download them into that place we call the brain

Cerebral gnats tickle the edge of my creativity
They want so badly to be words on a page,
seem to hate me for my lack of eagerness to write
because I am falling apart

I whisper to them as if they were puppies
"Come here, please." I entreat, offering them
bits of rewards, a poem, a haiku...something
They shake their heads, shy away, trembling

If only words could be out of the ether
in clouds of perfect and impeccable scribbling
But that is not the nature of the beast and I sit here
picking each one, like pinching fleas off a dog

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