do you know the feeling a writer gets when
he’s staring at an empty white page wishing the
words would travel from the tip of his tongue to
the tips of his fingers and wondering whether
this is just a reflection of his every day life
—he never knows what to say to
express how he’s feeling because how can
a person put how he feels into words when
real emotions are indescribable and words
can’t do any justice to that all-encompassing
love that takes his breath away or that myriad of
tingles rushing from his nose to his chest to his knees
to his feet when he hears her voice calling
his name like thunder in clouds above his head
preceding a freezing rain that engulfs him in its
wet grasp—
and his words finally flow but they’re jumbled
wet scratches of ink and letter and word mixed
in a blender and spit out to harden under coffee
stains and it’s all
bad poetry like the ashes of a once hot fire now
freezing in the December air and he wonders if
he’ll ever get it back, that consuming fire that
used to flow from his brain to his mouth to his
fingertips to the page where it burned the paper
with words and paralyzed everything in its path
but the writer stares again at an empty white page and wishes he could find himself in a pen