Anywhere the compass may point,
It leads to a single place.
There my  hands tremble,
As thoughts accumulate into words,
Afraid it will not be enough, every time.
My guts, tighten and my heart sink deep,
Though the eyes want to tell the story,
They are afraid of someone reading it
I know it will perish- me and my poetry.
The black crow sitting on my porch,
Explains how it's vexing him.

I understand and for him, I drop the pen,
Staring at the clouds I hope for rain.