Written, sung, and played,
Covered, piano, fingers splayed,
Words that flow, are gentle on the ear,
Ones that bring the eye a tear,
Ones that scream, shout, and cry,
Some people hate,
Others love, and embrace,
What music does,
It calms the heart,
And soothes through the veins,
Pulses to the brain,
And helps to save.

I wanted to write today.
My fingers itched.
My head pained.
Words were not coming.
In my heart. In my brain.
Felt uncomfortable
by this strain.
Have I stopped loving him?
Is it a writer's block?
tick
tock
tick
tock
tick
tock
....
blank page in front of me.
The poet is the clock.