I've come to the point,
To where I must push myself.
In for the words to rise,
I burn and I quiver.
Cool down and shiver,
But my block keeps hidden my uprise.
Am I a poet or a parrot?
Mocking every worded rhyme,
I'm bummed and bamboozled.
At the cantankerous creations of my noodle,
Keeping up with time.
The infernal cry and racket,
Seems to muddle my internal bracket.
Where words flow like water,
Day and night.
But in this standing,
With no easy way of handling.
A safety net gone,
No more easy lines.