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.