Caren Krutsinger Poet Free verse

A Crumpled Ball

I write a line. It makes no sense. I tear up the paper.
Into little tiny itty bity bitsy bits.
Blow them onto the floor, for this is my mood now.

Begin again. Three words. They feel “shaky”. 
I glare at them. They are not my words.
Yet they came from my fingers.
They end up in a crumpled ball, next to three others.

My muse is not amused. She is trying. I am the obvious problem.
Maybe we are not in the mood for this, I suggest.
We communicate by telepathy, 
Unless she loses her temper.

Boom!
I find myself on the floor
She likes to show me 
Who is boss

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Quoth Theraven November 19, 2019 at 10:46 AM Caren, Crumpled thoughts are a good breeding ground for poetry. -Richard Caren Krutsinger November 19, 2019 at 8:55 PM I depend on it, count on it, and rely on it!

Chris Green November 19, 2019 at 9:52 AM That was funny in a way, a great view of how writer's block can take us all down at times. Caren Krutsinger November 19, 2019 at 8:56 PM It is amazing to me how many times I will start a poem, and crumple up six or eight balls of notebook paper right off the bat.

Kai Michael Neumann November 19, 2019 at 4:00 AM Crumpling the paper is the old delete button. Sometimes we restore and unfold what is good. Kind wishes, Kai Caren Krutsinger November 19, 2019 at 8:57 PM I still LOVE to crumple up the paper, preferring to write almost all of my things out in long-hand first.