How can you write what you feel, What you know, When you don’t? How can I keep the words from running dry When I’m wasting time trying to squeeze them From the inkwell of my mind?
I am not an artist, I am a student.
And yet everything I’ve learned Seems to fail me. Rhymes, meter, imagery: Why do I know these things If I can’t use them myself?
I am not an artist, I am an observer.
This problem is not rare And yet as I write about not writing I write. My lack of a story Is a story itself. Thinking is the enemy And in this head of mine My foe flies at me relentlessly. Sometimes a mind overflowing with thoughts Can hurt more than an imagination run dry. Yet the pain only fuels me.