My words can’t dance, unless the music’s slow and the mood takes them. Really that’s just kissing to a tune, creating a beat with heat and acceptance. My words can’t walk in heels. They can’t be still or follow rules. They strip then they swear when they slip at the end of a line, or trip face-first into a cliche. My words pile up. A heap of need. Never a poem.

beautiful words- less so
once I catch them
tangled in a thread of thought
hooked on Cupid’s bow
dragged back by reluctance
until they drown

I don’t even know how to write anymore.

I used to swim in this ocean of words and ideas.
Now it’s just sand.
Slipping through my fingers.

Fishing for my muse
but he eludes me.
A futile quest to catch
mere sprats.
Other times they gush in torrents.
He teases me, I’ll warrant;
lets them drop into my lap,
words, fast & fat.
He commands the waters
but I will catch him for my tea
& feed my famished poetry.