The Idle Writer
Go on, put pencil to paper
Coordinate mouth and mind
Leave it not ‘til later
Lest this heart ascend
In the meantime
Remember the bruise
That smiled
And the laugh that cried
Every aching moment compiled
Every tear soon to dry
How simple it should be
To express the soul
In tune or ink
I should hope it isn’t only me
Too suffocated to think
Mediocrity poisons the mind
And paralyzes the hands
Unyielding, this thing called time
The ambiguous notion, made by man
Despite objection
The moments tick by
Breath by breath
It leaves me
Tremors melt in soft sighs
The pen is idle
Inspiration flees
Hands sit less than steady
The ceiling holds a blank stare
My brain has grown thick and heavy
And still, my page is bare
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