The Art of Writing

Pieces of what I know sparkle like glass, refusing to coalesce into concrete thoughts My fingers reach the words, but fail to download them into that place we call the brain Cerebral gnats tickle the edge of my creativity They want so badly to be words on a page, seem to hate me for my lack of eagerness to write because I am falling apart I whisper to them as if they were puppies "Come here, please." I entreat, offering them bits of rewards, a poem, a haiku...something They shake their heads, shy away, trembling If only words could be out of the ether in clouds of perfect and impeccable scribbling But that is not the nature of the beast and I sit here picking each one, like pinching fleas off a dog