Fly Or Die
I sit with page in front of me
not blank, as you may think.
My words are on the brink
of flying or dying, you see.
So I’ll just sit, and stare, and blink
and try to make it better,
maybe change a letter,
to get my feet and rhymes in sync.
When I’m stuck and mind in fetter
I’ll dream of flying high.
Not wanting words to die,
I become a phrase abetter.
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