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My pen hovers over paper
I think what can I write
I really want to pen a poem
But maybe not tonight
I cannot get the flow to come
My head is like a sieve
If only I could start a line
But nothing my thoughts give
Should I head up the stairs
And jump into my bed
To find some inspiration
From dreams inside my head
Or maybe uncork a bottle
To fill my page with ink
Why that’s a great idea
That’s what I’ll do I think
To pull down all the barriers
I’ve erected in my mind
I pour a glass of Chardonnay
Hoping the truth to find
From deep in my subconscious
Where I alone won’t tread
Taken only by my dreams
While I am sleeping in my bed
Then suddenly a child appears
His eyes are full of hope
I look and see myself there
Tying a noose into a rope
I awaken with a shiver
Running down my spine
I now have had enough
So I re cork the wine
The writing it will have to wait
Until I’m good and ready
And I can hold the pen again
In a hand that’s nice and steady
Copyright © Robert Andrew Lyle | Year Posted 2014
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