I have used up
pages
pages
pages
to reap
only frustration,

crossed out
word
after word
after word
phrases sentences stanzas
not knowing

why?

forcing verse to rise
from the dark waters of self doubt,
time and effort coax and tease
and tempt
and tug
and pull

yet pencil lead continues
to disappear
empty
on pages
nothing

but thick hard gray scratches,
second guesses
angry strokes

Voices hum from the towering trees,
inspiration hiding in a corner
running
mocking

and I listen
to myself
saying
                 
            I can't.

And all the poems that could have been
fold like smoke
tumbling
twisting
swallowi...