Where are the words, the ones with sparks
to set a fire in wooden hearts
and set to work my wooden tongue
with all the wit that they impart ?

where do those words that all belong
in works of poetry come from ?
I know them only as the guests
that visit me by book and song;

my own words bear the awkwardness
of someone starting to undress
with clumsy thumbs and wooden hands
and should perhaps stay unexpressed..

the art
of moving forward,
or dare I say- on
is the type that is too beautiful
to ever be drawn
acted
or done
the art of moving forward
is the sweetest kind
and if you ever figure it out
please teach me

because art,
  was never my strong suit

she slide
inside
her body...

And I'm just trying


               to make sense


                                   of it all.

The greatest grief for a writer is to lose the connection with the pen and the paper.