The Nudging
What's with this nudging-
this perpetual nudging
from deep within,
urging me to write a poem?
A poem of feelings,
of rhythm and imagery.
And I am willing-
Grasping for words,
phrases, perhaps
something in iambic pentameter.
But I am so spaced out.
I swivel my eyes-
back to front,
peering into the folds of my
spaced-out mind.
My impenetrable gaze
sifts through gray matter,
where arteries pulse
with bright scarlet oxygenated blood,
where veins run deep purple,
flushed, delicate pink.
It is quite extraordinary.
I could write of colors,
I could paint with words-
but there is nothing there.
No angst in me,
nothing provoking,
nothing bothersome,
boiling, nor bubbling.
Just the nudging,
this perpetual nudging.
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