Sometimes a picture in my head
I see and try to draw its breath
From it; I need its essence too
It helps me write with words that move,
With words that speak, that tell a tale,
Tales of pure joy, tales that impale.
But their fine point appears now blunt
They’ve lost their edge, their will to hunt
Their movement has grown sluggish too
As if thick blood they’re coursing through.
My fingers move and words are drawn
But they’re misshaped and they’re deformed
They have big eyes, but cannot see
Their pretty hands can touch, can’t feel
Word after word pours out, in vain,
Each out of order, each insane
That’s why I keep them locked away
In drafts that in the darkness stay.
At next sunset, again I try,
I give those words a chance to lie,
I need them to be good enough
So I can write about this stuff,
So I can set each of them free
Maybe they’ll do the same for me.