For the Love of Writing

poem, poems, poetry, writing

I always worry that the love

For the written word will leave me.

As though it were something that

Could be misplaced.


Unlike a forgotten face

That resurfaces during a dream.

The words drip from my pen.

In patient ink, black and clean.


But still I worry,

Who would I be?

Oh, god I have not written a word in a week.


The emotional trauma is building.

Like Heaped, black coal; burning brilliantly

The gauge needs a dump.

Or, I just may succumb to this haze of propylene.


Words then patter in a flash flood.

Carrying the cows and the pitchforks.

Washing away the banks and haystacks.


Those little pebbles in the dam won’t hold.

I’m on my second poem.

I’m Back on a roll.


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