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So I guess this is where I am:
Where desire to write meets lack of inspiration.
Its not that I’m short on ideas,
But those ideas stopped mid-formation.
You see, I want to write about earthworms.
I think us analogous in a way.
During a storm neither can hide:
We lie exposed: bodies naked and faults ablaze,
Then dry up the morning after a rain.
Flooded out of dark-lit, earth-bound homes;
We’re such frail creatures to face the Devil’s smite,
And I wonder if they ever feel alone.
And I want to write about rain.
About the patterns, smell, taste—
Sticking out my tongue in childish gesture
To catch a drop too tiny to taste.
I want to write the rain at night,
It’s a symphony in and out of my head,
Each note of a masterpiece sliding off the page
As I lie awake, listening, in my bed.
Then I want to write the sun and moon,
But as a battle—eternally raging—
And reveal in the conflict, a starry plot,
And discover something truly amazing.
First, I’ll see the moon rising,
A faded grey on a dark blue backdrop,
Then in turn will come the sun,
In blazing triumph till once again it drops.
And I want to write about the tides;
The colors that play across the sky
As the waves come in then retreat.
How the refractions of light catch my eye
As they glint off water and clouds.
The day closes: imagination ignites
For a while I’m blinded—
I figuratively forget external sight.
Then I want to test the wind again,
From gentle whisper to war-like thunder,
And maybe describe the clouds as it gathers them,
Or playfully renders them asunder.
Then I want to explain how it feels when it’s dying;
When a hard gust fades to soft breeze,
And how when it goes it seems to be sighing,
A last farewell to the world it leaves.
I take up my pen to write these things,
Then smile as I lay it down,
For lack of inspiration inspired inspiration
And in irony my words drown.