I’m all
starts and no
finishes
today.
I’ve started
several
poems, short
stories,
essays and
pieces of
prose and
all of them have
gotten stuck
at the tips
of my
fingers.
I’m unable
to navigate the
roiling seas
of my thoughts
to any white
crested clarity,
worthy of
putting word to the
page, or
screen, or program,
or whatever
this machine for word
making is.
No one is at
the wheel
as it were,
because the Captain
is in his
cabin, doing things…
Which, for
the lack of a better
metaphor,
makes writing something
worthwhile
sort of difficult.
My thoughts
are watching,
shrugging at
me as I prance
around like
a lunatic
at an anti-prancing
convention
because they
have no idea what I’m
doing either.
“It’s all
part of the show,” I yell.
But they’re
not buying it.
They know me
better than I
know myself.
“You’ll get
tired of prancing soon enough,”
they’ll say
confidently.
And of
course they’re right.
I’m not
focused.
I’m aloof
with ideas
and lost in
their muddiness.
[Erase,
erase, erase, erase]
Whatever I
had written,
It was not
good.
“Getting
tired yet,” asks my thoughts.
I hate to
admit it, but I am.
“No, I’m
gonna keep prancing till
the world
ends or I find love,” I shout.
My thoughts
give me a thumbs up and
return to
reading the novelization of
Dirty
Dancing.
“Damn it.”
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