Sunday Scribblings: Writing

Frustration
So many things that crash about in my mind
They all are wanting out.
It is a stretch to the plain white expanse
I have no idea what this poem is about.

Emotions and feelings and tales of the times
Words phrases and snippets of lines
How can one shape them into a poem?
Sometimes it just seems to take time.

Struggle and strain and look for the words
They’re in there someplace, fast asleep
I listen to hear them come talk to me
The words, they don’t make a peep.

I stare at the empty page, in front of my face
And wonder what form shall it take?
Will it rhyme will it flow will it fall off the page?
You know, I don’t think my muse is awake.

He’s sleeping too with the words and the lines
And buries himself in comfort.
Hey wake up in there; I’m trying to write.
He rolled over and gave me a snort.

I guess for tonight, I’ll not get it done
He’s not going to give me the chance.
Maybe tomorrow he’ll come out to play,
And across the page he will dance.

He’ll help me to paint images fine
And show me the way to the words
For now he is snoring, and this work is boring,
This waiting is just for the birds!


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