the page laps ink
like milk from a bowl
sometimes there’s
enough for
my hungry soul.
my mind,
like Richard Parker
with a mutton shank,
gnawing away.
it all moves at
a snail’s pace,
never fast enough.
it is not a pleasant
thing to think
that there is so
much more to be
done.
I know I’ll never
get to it all.
It’s not right,
in fact all wrong,
there is no warmth,
there is no song,
not enough steaks,
not enough ham,
all that is left
is blackberry jam.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
random notes turned into something.