The infertile piece of my mind,
where the words refuse to root and grow-
where the sentences become silence
and i fight to find words-
in fact I am grasping at straws.
Unable to summon an image,
like a old black and white Polaroid picture-
I take my time
try to beat out a rhyme.
Why do we write?
Why write something as old-fashioned,
I ask these questions to my soul,
wondering what words
will fall next
across my page,
as I am just mutely
in a deep dank daze.
somedays the right words,
they never come.
other days, i am full of verbage,
full of riddles, full of phrases, half-baked imagery.
Being a poet is never easy.
Though there are some, who make it look so.
The roar of the fan, in the summer morning heat,
Like a quiet Lion, never missing a beat.
And my mind soldiers on empty.
a poem left incomplete.
grasping at straws,
longing to say
something significant-in some kind of way.